47th Annual Hunger Games
by chuckesleaze
Summary: Give them a good show. The Games have begun! Required viewing for all citizens of Panem.
1. FINAL TRIBUTES

District 1: Phoenix Chase; 15; Female

Linus Santoro; 17; Male

District 2: Averil Alerderline; 16; Female

Gregory Hendrick; 14; Male

District 3: Floe Quince; 16; Female

Bennett Howard; 18; Male

District 4: Majestic Finley; 14; Female

Shea Gondor; 17; Male

District 5: Camellia Embury; 15; Female

District 6: Kyla Montay; 14; Female

Burl Lichten; 12; Male

District 7: Joyce Anne Irving; 17; Female

Burka Blaine; 16; Male

District 8: Marley Deerlard; 16; Female

Tim Hart; 16, Male

District 9: Lia Withers; 12; Female

Cedar Larkson; 13; Male

District 10: Artemis Traymon; 17; Female

Thorne Marks; 18; Male

District 11: Lilla Carter; 18; Female

Arden Wade; 17; Male

District 12: Keishi Taine; 13; Female

Unless I get two last minute characters, the District 5 and 9 boys will be bloodbath characters I B.S my way through. I'm starting writing as we speak! I should have the first chapter up later tonight. I'm doing the idea of 3-4 random POVS for the reaping, train ride, and so on until every character has a view before the Games. I will also be doing the private training through a Gamemaker's eyes, as well as the interviews through a Capitol citizen's view. One chapter will be dedicated to including every Tribute's pre-Game thoughts, and then it's into the arena we go! I have 9 bloodbath deaths including my personal submissions, so I apologize in advance if your Tribute dies! I generally liked everyone I received, so I simply chose the ones I connected with the least to go early on. Better than having a poorly written Tribute! Please let me know if you have any last minute suggestions or ideas!


	2. Reapings

**LINUS SANTORO; DISTRICT 1; 17**

"Run," my head shouts, as my legs try to comply. Just as I pivot myself towards the edge of the plains before me, I feel a surge of fire run up my arm. Glancing down, I find the left limb ending with a blunt and bloody stump. I spin around to discover myself entangled in a thin wire, the boy from Three wincing as my remaining extremities contort with the volts of a strong electric current. Just as a girl I remember as a tribute a few years back raises her axe to deliver a final blow, I wake up with a start to find my sister, Alice standing above me.

She looks a little shaken, but still with the same knowing, mature glint in her eyes, suggesting that they belong to a wise old woman, rather than a small 12 year old. I raise my left arm, confirming I am not the large Tribute from 11 that won two years ago, or a Career entangled in the unlikely Victor named Beetee's trap, or anything related to the Games. At least not for another year. I turn back to Alice, smiling at the hard face the peered back at me. When she grinned back and skipped to her side of the room, I was reminded how similar we were. Just as easy as it was to assume she was a hardened old soul from her scowl and solemn eyes, people thought I was nothing but cold, cruel, and something of a dunce. While we inherited our slightly estranged father's hard glare, the resemblances between our harsh, rude parents stop there. Although Alice is a bit sophisticated and cunning for her age, she is actually very girlish and innocent. She still tries picking flowers for our mother, though we both know they go ignored. But I'll admit, even I am softer than she. People often duck their heads from my bulging muscles and seemingly deadly gaze, but anyone who knows me knows my only threats are towards myself, for allowing myself to be so sensitive, so kind. Unfortunatly, not many people can tell you that. District 1's youth consists of either frivolous dolts; believing that since their pampering parents grope diamonds at work all day, the ground jewel dust beneath their fingernails rubs off on them and everything around their shallow bodies, causing an air of wealth and importance; or bulking brutes with Victor parents, who spend their days dancing with violence for the ultimate honor of winning the Games. The prior think I'm threatening and deadly, the latter think I'm cocky and aloof. So I spend most of my days with Alice, who I feel I can have a more intelligent conversation with anyways. I pull myself out of my bed and over to my small sister, who is hunkering over a mirror, prepping herself. Of course. Today's the Reaping. I lean over the glass, rustling my blonde hair. Alice rolls her eyes at my attempt at vanity.

"Reaping's in a half hour, Linus" she tried saying strongly, but I caught the crack in her voice.

"Nervous?" I asked

"No. Not at all. You kicked me in the back"

Looking downward, I see my stance caused my knee to hit her square in the spine. Of course she's not nervous. Why is it she can always think faster than I? People thought I was smart, but I'm not intuitive like Alice. She knew that even if she was reaped, which is unlikely; there would be a dozen hopeful, blonde teens willing to take her place. Not that she wouldn't be able to survive. We both take advantage of the underground training center available to the citizens of 1. You'd be stupid not to. The rest of Panem thinks that the children of our District are raised to kill, to think winning the Games is a huge thing of pride, of honor. That's not the case. The crazy ones do, the ones whose parents own silk factories and ruby stores in the Capitol, where most of our volunteers hail from. But the rest of the District just wants their kids to have a chance if the unthinkable happens, to be able to survive, or, in my case, to escape. I could no longer take my cruel parents, who wasted their once bountiful wealth, who threw it all away. Alice and I needed to break free. But it wasn't time to think about that. I threw on a blue shirt that buttoned all the way to the zipper of my simple cargo pants. I didn't care much about my looks, but I could tell by the way some of the girls looked at me dreamily before jerking their heads around that I was blessed. I held the door open for Alice, who shuffled out into the sun. My parents barely grunted a goodbye as we made our way to the center of the city. It was one of the few places not surrounded my factories, so Alice had drug me there quite a few times. It had a few nice shops, the bakery, even a little café. But today the windows and doors were all shut. I pushed my way through the crowd, pulling Alice behind me. I led her to the 12 year old section, bound off with a thick velvet rope. As I worked my way to my fellow 17's, I heard a girl squeak out,

"Tell them what you're gonna do, Brock!"

Brock Mallet. What a stupid name for a stupid jar-head. He was the king of the Capitol brain-washed jerks. He was at the height of his pathetic career, 18 years old, and ready to volunteer. I was fantasizing about a small, under-dog girl from a sad District like 12 taking his head clean off, when I heard him growl a response.

"The girl from 3, I'll tear her teeth out. Cut each finger off slowly. End with a gradual stab in the stomach. I don't care if she's 12 years old. She's going down for coming from the District with that stupid bitch that killed my sister. Same with the rest of them. Don't worry, they'll all be slow, just for my audience," he ended with a smirk

I remembered six years ago when Brock's sister, Clarice, was stabbed right in the temple by the girl from District 3. Though the girl from three died from slipping in a pool of acid later, I recall Brock getting increasingly deranged after that. I remembered my dream. The searing burn of my severed hand. The slow, painful deaths I'd seen of past Games that still follow me. The tormented families in town whose children were gradually sliced to bits for the fun of it all. The screams. The torture. So when the escort stood up and pulled out a bit of paper for the girls, then the boys, I didn't hear the names. All I heard was my voice yelling "I VOLUNTEER!"

**Majestic Finley; District 4; 14**

It started with the cough. As hard as I tried to clear my throat, to get out whatever was clogging it so badly, it refused to go away. I ignored it. Continued to play in the beach with my friends, to pick shells to give to anyone who smiled at me, to dance in the waves and eat fresh crab caught far off shore. I did a lot of the last one. As much as I ate, I was always still hungry afterwards, and a pound was lost for every serving I downed. One day, while I was swimming out to try and touch the dolphins which leaped just out of reach, I felt my arms go limp and the mind go blank. I woke up on a cot, in the fairly building that passed for a hospital. When I found a Peacekeeper standing over me, I was scared. But my fear did nothing but increase when I was told by the man in white, who had been a doctor in the Capitol before choosing to come protect the Districts, told me I had a something called cancer. That's when I noticed my parents standing behind the bed for the first time, letting out muffled wails. The Peacekeeper walked out, taking my health and long-life with him as he never turned back. The healer, who was as close to a doctor as we had in the Districts, said we had nothing we could do without the Capitol's help. For weeks my parents pleaded with Peacekeepers, the mayor, anyone with power.

"No one in the Districts can have that kind of treatment," one scoffed, "Natural selection. Survival of the fittest. You people have jobs to do for us. That's all."

I still don't understand how someone could be so cruel. I pulled a green frock over my head and ran a comb through my long hair. Although it was waist-length, it was thinning terribly. Part of the disease, they told me. Along with the prominent ribs and gangly legs. The relentless cough. The fatigue. It never got me down, though. Not once since I was 11, since the incident at the hospital. If anything, it's made me happier. All day, I want to give everyone the happiness I lack when I wake up in the mornings, hacking and wheezing. Making people smile gives me joy in return that wouldn't otherwise be there. I step out of my room, knocking straight into my father.

"Majestic! Jessy! Are you okay! Did I hurt you? Any bruises?" he panicked. I was used to such reactions from my parents, and generally everyone around me. Everyone seemed like they were walking on eggshells when I was near. They grinned back at me, accepted my gifts and kindnesses, always giving some in return. But there was always something a little more than courteousness behind these gestures. Pity.

Reassuring my Father, I tip-toed towards the kitchen, careful to not push myself in too far. My mom had banned me from the kitchen. Too many knives and fires, too many ways I could get hurt. I hate this. Sometimes, I want to march right into the room, pick my teeth with a knife and stretch my face towards the growing flames. Sometimes, especially on reaping day, I want to enter the Games, volunteer, just to do it, just to prove to them I'm strong. But then I imagine being cold and alone, taking lives, and I quickly push the thought out. My mother brings me out a dish of toast and sea-gull eggs, which I force down past the nervous lump in my throat only The Hunger Games can give me. My mother gently holds my hand as my father pushes open the door, propping it open for me to exit. As much as I'm sure these things aren't necessary, they insist, and I don't have the heart to reject them. We make our way towards the section of the District where the Justice Building stands, having to take a large ferry to shuttle those who live amongst us, in the outskirts of the colossal 4. My parents hug me as lightly as possible, and barely graze my cheek with their kisses. I smile and wave to everyone as I take my place in the 14 section. Though some awkwardly pretend not to see me, and others give me back the piteous grimaces, I see a genuine, familiar set of teeth. Walter. My best friend since as long as I can remember. He's a little crueler than i like, a little too loud and a bit obnoxious, but he brings out the small amount of fire and humor I have in me. We chatter on, laughing loudly and attracting a few stares until the Mayor's speech is over, and the blue woman with District 4-inspired, shell-encrusted skin dives into stage and nearly into the bowls with the little, condemning slips on them, with one death sentence neatly etched onto its blank face. I am watching the waves break over the distance, when I hear a familiar cry, and feel a nudge from behind. Not until I'm shaking hands with the large, dark, almost pretty boy, do I realize he's my fellow District partner. I am a tribute in the 47th Annual Hunger Games.

**Barka Blaine; District 7; 16**

Blood and pine needles. The smell still seeps into my nostrils, threatening to choke me, though I know it's not really there. Bi-polar disorder, they said. No other reason a man would take his and his wives' lives. Especially with two children to take care of. I stood next to the hard bark coffins, refusing to acknowledge anyone who came by me offering their grievances. When the Peacekeepers came by where I stood long after the mourners were gone and my parents were buried, towing behind my tiny sister, Azalea, I didn't even reject being forced to live in a far-off Uncle's small shack of a house. Pulling Azalea up to rest on my high-up hip, he knew instantly that this would be even less of a home than my first. With my terrorizing father, here one minute and gone the next, and my poor, frail, weak mother. It least there had been some trace of love in the house, even if it was as weak as a small bud on a sapling. For the next four years, Azalea and I were treated as slaves. I recall a once long forgotten fairy-tale I once heard my mother telling Azalea, a story of an orphan who was treated like a personal maid by her father's new wife and her two wretched daughters, forced to clean ashes from a decrepit fireplace all day. Although I recall the girl eventually escaping and blossoming into a thing of royalty, no such luck ever occurred to my sister and I. Greta and Grover, our two rude, spoiled, and unfortunately unattractive cousins were constant sources of taunting. One day, after a particularly harsh round of insults towards our lack of clean clothes, "manners", and most cruelly, parents, made Azalea run to me crying, I threatened to kill their awful parents and see how they liked it. A stupid thing to say, but I don't contain myself much and I was only 14. My uncle did nothing but laugh.

"He gets it from his father, kids," he said wryly, "Destined to be nothing by a dirty, worthless, killer."

I went out and punched an oak so hard that my hand swelled and ached for days. Today, on my 5th reaping, on a day I knew death was in the air, and mine was sentenced in the Reaping bowl 20 times, I could smell the blood and pine. I saw red dripping on the far wall of my old house. I quickly shut the image out of my mind as I attempted to pull a too-small hand-me-down shirt over my thick hair and wide head. It barely reached my also ill-fitting pants. When Azalea walked in and tried wrapping her skinny arms around my tree-trunk of a waist, I realized she had the opposite problem. While we ached and starved, my cousin Greta had more than enough pounds to go around. Azalea's shirt sagged just to her knees, while the pants were sagging around the ankles without her holding them up.

"Let me help you with that," I said with the light grin only my sister could yank out of me.

I tore the sleeves off the shirt while she removed the pants, making a loose and somewhat pretty pink dress. Wrapping a passed down brown belt of Grover's around her, she almost looked like she came from a nice, normal family. How I wished she was. When she giggled and swung from branches, I was only crushed by the fact she had to suffer with our Uncle and his motley crew. I wanted to take her away from all of this, but even with me working day and night in the lumber yard; I didn't earn more than a few dollars a week. The rest of the house already took off towards the Justice Building a few minutes early, so Azalea and I rushed after them. I'm comforted every day by the fact she is still too young for the Reaping. Though our Uncle tried to force her to watch the Games when we first moved in, I refused to allow it. I threw a fit, punched, and kicked, until they booted us out for a few days. We stayed out a little abandoned shed I had found out by the log chute, eating bark and pinecones. By the time we came back, the Games were over, and we never went through that again. She still has some innocence to her, though I still think she's growing up a little too fast for my taste. Leaving Azalea with Grover and one last hug and kiss, I brood as I stand in the 17 year old section. I catch the girls staring, intimidated but longing, and the boys glaring, sizing me up. I was the dark, mysterious, and why not admit it, handsome stranger they all wanted to either kiss or kill. The Mayor finishes his boring, pointless speech, and the eyes once shifting towards me are fully focused on the stage before us. An elfish looking girl with a long, blonde braid is called first. My dad talked about her father a few times, and not in a positive way. I recall the words "mindless idiot". That's when I hear the boy's name. I make eye contact with my Uncle, and when I see the smirk growing on his face, I realize who it is. It's Barka Blaine. As I twist my dark features into its hard mask, a little voice inside of me tells me maybe now's my chance to give little Cinderella a life of wealth and glory.

**Artemis Traymon; District 9; 15**

A woman tugs her son away as I pass on the street. Her eyes search mine with mercy, and I return it with a smile. Startled, she picks up the boy and hustles away, closer towards the Justice Building. Several other people dodge me as I pass by on the street. I pass a group of girls about my age, gesturing my way and laughing. That's when I hear it. It always starts out as a low buzz. Then it starts ringing, and shaping into a voice. The voice tells me to do a lot of bad things, but I know how to get it out. I quickly veer of path into the side of a brick building. The sharp edges scrape the tender skin of my arm, and tiny blood spots begin to form where impact was made. The voice disappears, requited by the fresh wound. This voice is different from the other. This one thirsts for my blood, while my third voice thirsts for other's. My first voice is me. Artemis Traymon. I am not crazy. I have a problem. I don't try to hear the voices, quite the opposite is true. I wish I didn't. I don't mean to snap back and forth between a thoughtful me, a suicidal me, and a murderous me. When I'm normal me, I realize this. It's just a problem. One that could probably be fixed with the Capitol's doctors and medicine. But when I snap into that second voice, I tell myself I am crazy. IT is not a problem, YOU are a problem. On and on until I give it what it wants. People wonder why I walk around dazed and confused sometimes. Not knowing what's real or not real, or who I am. It reminds me of the time I was 9 years old, and I wandered too far into the grain field and came upon what seemed to me like a clump of twigs on the ground. However, when I kicked it, a stream of large, plump bees came swarming out, gold bodies almost glistening in the sun. Tracker Jackers, my Father had said. I had almost been stung to death, and I was in a state of pure confusion for a few days. I hardly even could tell that I had stopped, because that day, my Father was brought home, unable to move, a bloody mess. I shut out what I thought were more hallucinations, and went to sleep. I woke up again to a new world. My father had indeed been paralyzed when a tractor backed over him in the field. He was practically useless. I began to resent my father, for being so clumsy and making my mother and I do everything for him, although my only job had been to tend to the housework. How regretting was I, when I found my dad, smeared in gore with a blade through his heart. All of our money was gone. Thieves, we found out. But the crooks didn't just take our money. They took my daddy, and they took my sanity. I was only 11 years old. And that's when the voices started. I shut this memory out quickly before the third, angry voice takes over. My long black hair snags on a branch, and I stop to detach it. As I fiddle with the limb, Jaymon walks into me. My only friend, the only person who sees that I'm more than just insane. He even tries to help with the voices. He spent a lot of time digging through old books in our City Hall, trying to find out different methods or even cures. He found nothing. He was even whipped when the Mayor caught him sifting through books that were supposed to be hidden for District 9's "protection". Censorship is what I call it. How many ways must the Capitol keep us down? Jaymon glances down at the new blood on my arm, I see his shoulders sag.

"Artemis…" he sighs

He knows I can't help it. He gives another puff of air and we silently walk onward until we reach the Justice Building. After a tight, quick good luck hug, we separate into our male and female sections. I'm thinking about how he must still be upset about the fresh cut, when something registers. Only my third voice picks it up.

_Kill. Cut. Slice. Kill._

It echoes in my head, when I realize this time, it may come in handy. More blood seeps down my arm where I see my nails have further opened what was once a small scrape. Blood drips down my wrist and into the meek boy's hand.

"CONGRATULATIONS, TRIBUTES OF DISTRICT NINE!" the escort booms.

_Kill. Cut. Slice. Kill._

I posted this late last night, but I deleted it to change a few things up and fix some typos, but now it's here to stay! I changed Artemis a little bit by playing up her multiple personalities a little more, and did a little research to back it up. I also changed her age, as there were WAY too many 17 year olds. Linus and Barka are two of my favorite tributes, and Majestic is a very interesting character to write for, so I had a lot of fun here. Artemis is the only chapter I'm unsure about, but let me know what you think so far!


	3. Justice Building

**Phoenix Chase; District 1; 17**

I pass daddy's picture as I strut down the marble hallway. He wears a smug grin almost as confident as my own. I stop in front of it until the Peacekeepers bump me along, the Victor of the 23rd Hunger Games having a short stand-off with the future champion of the 47th. When I reach the doors past our Wall of Victors, all I can think of is how proud he'll be. The image of his sword finally piercing the girl from 11's stomach fills my brain. I remember what comes next. The twist of the blade, the jerk back, the things that were never meant to leave the body spilling out onto the icy tundra. We replayed daddy's finest moment on special occasions, nestled around our warm fire with the golden mantle. Ever since I was little I dreamed of gripping my own blade in my own special Arena. I worked every day, sweating, bleeding, anything to harden myself up. And now it would all pay off. As I twirled my hair, watching the blonde flick into a soft red under the bright light, the first of what was sure to be many visitors waltzed in. Maude, followed by Emily. Bland names, bland people, I always thought. But, you must deal with the fans when you have the glory. I consider them a smaller-scale version of what's to come after I win. Maude cracks a lame joke, while Emily rolls her eyes and attempts to toss her short black curls. Obviously jealous. And obviously standing in my way. I please them however, with shallow compliments and talk of how desperately I'll miss them and I'll try my hardest to get home. As if. When they leave, my family comes in. My brother Gavin babbles on to me excitedly as my mom and dad sit on either side of me, patting my back and whispering words of encouragement. Things I already know of course. Make a splash at the chariots. Training score of at least 8. Charm the audience at the interviews. Get in with the Careers. Slit their throats as they sleep. Come home. Things I know I will do. My District partner is supposed to be one to watch out for. Though I'd seen him lifting chairs and throwing spears in the training room, shooting dagger with his eyes at anyone who dared to look my way, he was beneath me. I'd snap his thick neck before he had a chance to intimidate me. I remember when his parents torched the sapphire processing plant they owned, hoping the Capitol would give them the money to refurbish it in fear of going without their precious blue gems. Their own factory, their way of living, their workers in flames. Heavy alcoholics, the price of liquor was sky-rocketing. Needed something to pay for it. Couldn't fight the addiction. Still can't, if I recall correctly. My parents offer their last words of love, and promise to see me in a few weeks. Gavin hugs me tightly, and I ruffle his red hair as he pulls away. A few more friends from school come by, wishing me luck, as if I need it. I smile at them to their faces, and laugh in disgust as soon as they leave. I almost feel pity for them, with their plastic jewels and faux acts of wealth, while I roll in food and money and diamonds. Almost as much pity as I feel when I imagine my dagger sailing into my opponent's throat. Very little. Backstabbing, manipulating, soaking in glory, I've been playing this game since the day I was born. When the Peacekeepers escort me out again, I give daddy's picture one last wink.

I won't let you down.

**Lecktor Thom; District 5; 16**

**My personal bloodbath submission. Skipping over his POV to further dissect your guys' Tributes. Hope you're enjoying so far!**

**Lia Withers; District 6; 12**

Most people know morphling addicts from the big, hollow eyes. The skeletal limbs are another noticeable feature. Or maybe the distant smile plastered on their faces while they dance in their own unreachable worlds is the dead giveaway. They call them junkies, freaks, and wastes of space. I call them Mom and Dad. Their gaping eyes pass right through me as I clap in their bony faces, waving in front of them scraps scavenged from the gutters that I had to strain myself from eating on my own. It takes hours for them to realize the food and the small, emaciated, red-headed waif before them. The glint of recognition never registers. They usually just screech to themselves until I disappear back into the streets. Sometimes I wish I could melt into the pavement, gone for good. But I don't. Is it pathetic that I still have hope?

Had. Not anymore. As I pick at the soft couch in the Justice Building, I try to remember if any Victors had ever won at age 12. Not one comes to mind. My fellow District 6 tribute is 12 too, a first in the Games if I recall, but he's different. Hard, calculating, a survivor. While I may look tough on the outside, and although I can take the ache of an empty stomach and brave the elements alone, I'm still just an empty, hurt little girl. I am in some ways, however, far more grown up than I should be. Though my Mom and Dad had me at the young age of 17, I had become a parent far before they did. Supplying for two heavily drugged adults is not an easy task to lie on a child's shoulders. But I did anyways. I imagined that one day, I could crack them. I longed to walk into the house to find my father cooking dinner on a hot fire, to see my mother singing. I wanted them to tuck me into bed, to kiss my cheek. I wanted to know their favorite colors, their life dreams, to hear of what kind of person they wanted me to be. But all I heard was the drip of the clear liquid into their bright blue veins. Maybe that was their favorite color. The deep color of the tunnels that transport the substance into their drained bodies. Maybe they don't have dreams, now that their life itself is one big fantasy. And maybe they never cared that I would become a detached, abandoned outsider, whom people don't know whether to pity or fear. And when the Peacekeepers cracked open the door, a tear slides down my sun-burnt, gaunt cheek. Though I attempted to cure my parents of certain death many times, they didn't even come to comfort me for what was sure to be mine.

**Tim Hart; 16; District 8**

Sitting on the large chair in the Justice Building, I waited for her. At least ten girls stopped by, batting their lashes clumped with tears, hoping for a final kiss or whisper of love. I smiled, offered reassurance that I'd be coming home, but gave them nothing. In a past life, girls were just an outlet. I can't say I regret using them, for the way they threw themselves at me. We all have a little suffering in the Districts. It was my way to forget mine for a bit. But as soon as they called my name out over the City Circle, I was focused. The one girl whose attention I needed would finally come to. I pulled myself up against the seat's soft backboard.

"Your father never slouched," I imagined her sighing into my ear.

I wasn't looking for the approval of a pretty dolt with a buxom bust. I just wanted my mother to look at me without seeing clouds of imperfections and unlikeliness's to my deceased dad. Though I don't blame her. He was an intellectual, a loving man, a hero. He died trying to drag out a tiny child from the burning factory. At least she made it out okay. I still sit far away from the hot coals in our stuffy apartment, even if it means frozen toes. I close my eyes against the harsh lighting of the Waiting Room, and try to picture myself back home. I heard once that in some Districts, each family gets their own, personal little house. Things work differently here in 8. Everyone is stacked together in bland, run-down rooms, one on top of the other. Some of the richer families can afford big living spaces above factories, but even for them, there's no such thing as personal space. Everyone is clumped between cold metal and the smell of textiles and grease. That's why there was no escaping the smell of my father's burning flesh that day, or even weeks afterward. When I finally could take it no longer, I pushed through the crowded, broken street to the other side of town. That's when I met a leggy blonde, taking one look at my muscles and blue eyes and giving me an offer I couldn't refuse. I didn't come home for the rest of the day, and when I got back I found my mother hadn't even noticed. Never even said a word about it. So I went out again, for two days this time, with a redhead whose name never did stick. My mother, again hadn't realized. It became a habit, leaving to find girls to keep me company, returning to see if she'd noted my absence, and then finding a new broad to use to escape my world of hurt with when she didn't say a word.

Finally, I felt her hand on my shoulder. Looking up into her pained eyes, I took her into my strong arms, not pulling away until the Peacekeepers tapped my shoulder to take me away.

"You look so much like him," she smiled through tears.

"I'll make you proud," I promised as I gave her a kiss on her frail cheek, and left the dank smog of my District, possibly forever.

I'm not sure how I did on this, since there wasn't a lot that happened in the Justice Buildings to allow the characters to express themselves. But I still like these tribute's backstories, and I wanted to get a look of how diverse they all were, so I made it a time to reminisce for each of them. Review away, and PLEASE PM me with any arena ideas!


	4. Train Rides

**Shea Gondor; 17; District 4**

I've always thought myself to be a pretty lucky guy. Fairly wealthy, good looks, a steady stream of admirers. Even getting reaped on the day I was planning on volunteering was too convenient to be purely coincidental. I hopped on the stage, confident and all smiles. "ABOUT TIME!" I mused. Not until I got to the Justice Building, was a bomb dropped on me that shook the grin off my face. We all think a little too highly of ourselves sometimes, don't we? What we don't realize is that one day, we'll lose our perfectly toned bodies, or riveting charm, or streak of luck. Maybe I shouldn't have treated people like pawns, manipulating them into doing or being whatever I had decided, playing Capitol. Or maybe I should've been a little more humble with my looks, not have winked my seemingly irresistible green eyes and flipped my hair in so many women's directions. Was I being punished for my arrogance?

I walked over to the small bathroom in the corner of my room on the train. Splashing cold water on my face, I looked into the mirror.

"No more of this sensitive stuff," I told my reflection, "Time to start acting like a Career."

For now, the manipulation and over-confidence must stay. I would make them all love me, then tear them to shreds if I had to. I'd get home. Then I'd change. It used to be about the fame, the glory. Now it meant so much more. I didn't have to win for the honor of it all; I had to win for that little person who would one day call me "Daddy".

Sitting in the Justice Building, I had received several visitors; friends, family, all wishing me luck, bearing hugs and final words. Carmel was the last to come in. My girlfriend; a sweetheart, for sure. But I would never let myself get attached to a girl. I was planning on breaking up with her after I won the Games; maybe replace her with a few crazed Capitol women. That's when she took my hand and told me. Four months along, she said. Whatever it was that was hiding away my emotions for the past 17 years snapped, and I knew I was a goner for this little, nameless part of me. Bad timing, considering I was going to a place where feeling anything but blood thirst could kill you.

A sharp knock at the door woke me from my daydreaming. A woman in a white outfit escorted me from my room to a car containing a huge table, covered in food and surrounded by my team. Turning up the charm that would be my greatest asset in this competition, I pulled up a seat next to my District partner, giving her my signature wink. She smiled up at me hopefully, and I remembered where I'd seen her face. She was a few years below me at school, and people tended to avoid her because she had some sort of disease. Maybe it was contagious, I didn't know. Sad, I thought. Her long hair reminded me of Caramel's, which of course made me think of the baby. I scooted away from the girl slightly, not wanting anything to do with her frail body and soft grin. I couldn't get home with constant reminders weighing me down. Looking across the table, I saw my mentors; Andromache, our most recent Victor, no older than 15, and an aged woman whose name I forget, but has been a staple in the Games for as long as I can remember. She had a stroke last year, so I wasn't so sure if she was quite all there, but Andromache I could mold to my advantage. Before I even touched my plate, I decided to break the tension before it broke me.

"I'm Shea. Victor of the 47th Hunger Games," I smiled.

Expecting this to win them over, I was taken aback when Andromache threw her head back and laughed. I even caught a smirk on the old woman's face.

"Not with that attitude," Andromache quipped, "All talk. No substance. The Capitol needs a show, and as much as you think you'll give them one, you're nothing. Just another over-confident Career to die at the Cornucopia."

I felt my face turn hot. I couldn't tell if it was with anger or embarrassment.

"What about you, little one?" she gestured to my counterpart.

"I'm Majestic," she said, smiling a little too warmly for talking to someone like Andromache.

"Got anything?"

"Well, I have cancer, and without proper treatment, which I have none of, I'll be dead in three years, tops. I think I could use that to my advantage, for pity, since I got a lot of it back home. But I won't kill a thing," she replied. She had "bloodbath" written all over her.

"So that settles it," Andromache sighed. "No Victor from 4 this year. I'll take the sob-story, Mags, you take Career boy."

So not only did they write me off as good as dead, but I was stuck with the old lady too. I threw my plate down and stomped back to my room. Peering out of the window as trees flew by, I wish they knew. Maybe I was a little too confident. Maybe I acted mildly sociopathic. But I would win. And not for the reasons they thought, for the spotlight and glory, but to save someone from having to grow up without a father. No substance, they said? Maybe I didn't have a sad tale of disease to milk like Majestic, but the audience would eat my plight right up. But as the bright lights of the Capitol appeared in the distance, I didn't think of strategies and angles. All I could think of was the moment I would finally get to see my child's face.

**Joyce Ann Irving; 17; District 7**

I had always dreamed of riding a train. When I was little, every time I heard the whistle in the distance, I imagined hopping aboard, riding with my head slung out of the window, speeding off to far-away places. Places with food on every corner, with toys that could walk and talk, where whales were trained to jump through hoops. Places my dad would speak of while we laid under the willow tree in our front yard, places that were here long ago before District 7, places I vowed I would once see. I wouldn't go without my Daddy though. I was never spotted without him. Sometimes we would sit and paint, dipping squirrel-tail brushes into the juices of berries plucked from the trees. Or maybe we would go throw axes into the old stumps out back, seeing who could fling them the furthest and hardest, laughing the whole time. But the thing we did the most was dream. Every day we would sit and dream together for hours of all the places we could go and things we could do outside of 7. My dad could talk for days about all of the possibilities, the opportunities outside of Panem. And he did. All our ideas ended with a final sentence:

"If it weren't for the Capitol."

I suppose this was his downfall. It was what caused him to be dragged away one evening by a full squad of Peacekeepers, never to be seen again. A rebel, those of the District said. A mindless fool, stuck in the old days. But I knew better than that.

"This is no place for dreamers, Joyce Anne," my mother said.

But I always thought she was wrong. In a way, this was proof. I mean, I finally got to ride that train. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be heading to a land full of freedom and aspirations; it would be heading to my untimely death. I combed my fingers through my hair while I sauntered down to the dining car, where an hour earlier I was astounded by how much food there really was outside of District 7. I gorged myself on everything that was offered, hardly stopping to talk to those around me. Not that it mattered, my mentor quietly downed some strong-smelling liquor while my District partner sulked, leaving my escort, Aella, to trill on and on until an evil glare from my potential ally shut her up. I couldn't help but laugh, spewing whatever was in my mouth onto the pure white tablecloth. Aella scrunched up her obviously plastic nose, but didn't say a word until dinner was, to my dismay, over. I found myself nearly disappointed, because as vexing as the shrill Capitol accent is, it's interesting to hear about the lives of those outside of mine; to have no problems besides an enemy having matching lipstick, or what wig to wear to what party. We were told to return to the dining room in an hour, to watch the recaps of the Reapings.

As I reached the end of the hall, I paused to twist my hair back into its usual braid. Peering into the room, the Capitol seal illuminated the large television screen, hung neatly upon the wall. I pulled a chair into an isolated corner. Peering down, I noticed the paint chipping along the panels. It reminded me of all the times long ago, painting pictures with a man whose face has yet to fade from my memory. His hopeful grin in my mind's eye made me recall who I am. I am Joyce Anne Irving, a thinker. A free-spirit, sometimes little too bold. A charmer. A thrower of axes. An adventurer. All of these together may provide me with the ultimate dream-a chance to survive the horrors of the Games to come.

**Cedar Larkson; 13; District 9**

When I was younger, I would stand next to my mother in the fields, taking the harsh stalks from her dirty hands and tossing them into the big woven basket at our feet. Looking back, it wasn't much of a job, but it made me feel special. I would take a look around at all the frowning, exhausted adults, toiling away in the heat, sometimes dropping from fatigue right before my eyes. As they groaned and heaved and scowled, I wondered what ever made them so unhappy. So I would sing. I would tell jokes, make up stories, anything to see the lines in their worn faces crack into a smile. I had always genuinely liked people. When I got older, I would still help with the grain, but it was mostly just to make those people happy, even for just a bit. I would help at the shops, too. I'd sweep the dust and wheat granules from the ruddy floors, whistling jovially the whole time. I sweet-talked the girls, and even made the parents of my many friends chuckle when I came around. That's probably why a collective sigh broke out from my District when my name rang out over the square. My spirit, the spirit of happiness in a hopeless place, would finally be crushed by an early demise.

A matching sigh escaped my lips as I pulled up a seat between my mentor, a surprisingly bubbly woman named Ceres, and my District partner Artemis. Artemis was chewing on her hair nervously, surely fighting away demons no one could see. She really was a nice girl. Pretty, too. Just misunderstood. Her father used to join me when I would sing songs on the plains, making up silly lyrics while I hummed an up-beat tune. I didn't understand what happened to him at the time, and I'm still not completely sure now. All I knew was that he was dead, and Artemis wasn't quite the same after that. She was never really right in the head previously, but that really caused her to snap. People tended to avoid her especially nowadays, but I always stopped to say hello. Usually she would return the greeting, but occasionally she would furrow her brow in confusion and shake her head furiously, blinking around as if she had registered my gesture but couldn't tell the source, if she should attack or play nice. Today was one of those days. Her eyes darted about the room in sharp, quick motions, and she bit her lip until it turned as white as her pasty skin. I smiled anyways, but rotated towards Ceres hurriedly in case she reacted negatively.

My escort, a girl with a knee-length sheet of platinum blonde hair and skin that shimmered in the light, squealed as the seal of Panem illuminated the television screen. It was time to watch the recaps of the reapings that sealed mine and 22 others fates. I whispered to Ceres for most of the time, wanting to forget the terrible weeks to come and focus on something better, even if for just a few minutes. I managed to catch the important bits though. The classic volunteers from Districts 1 and 2, the boy from 3 whose look said he had more to offer than what was on the outside, the depressing pair of twelve year olds from 6. The boys from 7 and 8 looked intimidating; the look in Artemis's eyes completely stole away any possible attention I could have attracted. A strong looking, rare volunteer from 11, and a couple curly-headed kids from 12. I hugged my mentor goodnight as I went to lie back down in my warm bed. I had never had anything but a sack of grain hulls and leaves to lie on back home. Tears stung my eyes, even though I pressed them together tightly, willing sleep to come. This this fluffy comforter with its silken sheets was not worth the death that was surely to come. I, of all people, did not deserve it.

**Lila Carter; 18; District 11 **

People often spoke of escape in District 11. They spoke of hiding in the orchards, burrowing under the field before the towering fence, and other ridiculous ideas. I won't say the thought of such desperate attempts hadn't ever crossed my mind. There was a time where I sat, clutching my aching stomach in a dirty alleyway, begging for someone to take me from the misery. But I did something that I wish every person in Panem would do. I toughened it out. I don't know where I got my perseverance from. It was to be a learned trait. My father is dead. A victim of the 29th Hunger Games, if I recall hearing. Obviously not strong enough to make it. My mother is a whole different story. She is weak. Spineless. Something of a joke to me. What other kind of person would neglect their starving daughter? Who else would remarry a man who treats her and her own child like straight dirt, striking us with his fists and kicking us down with his evil words? Sometimes I feel for her, but then I remember what it's like to watch your own parent go out of their way to pamper a man who does nothing but hate, while you have nothing but a rotten orange for the next three meals. People think I'm cruel, but I'm not. I just grew up a little faster than others.

I remember when my mom told me she was pregnant. I had just returned from an 8 hour shift in the fields, with nothing but a few coins to show for it. I laughed in her face. She could hardly take care of one kid, let alone have enough love to give another. My step-dad must have heard me from across the room, because the next thing I knew, I was on the floor, his whisky breath on my face.

I ran out before I could hear what he had to say next, nearly knocking the loose door off its frame. I heard him yelling words after me that stung almost as bad as the lump on my face. Cupping my bleeding nose, I ran into a girl I worked alongside in the fields. She was a sweet person; kind enough to take me in. Anabelle was her name. Of course, I didn't tell her the real reason my face and heart had been broken that night. I told her that my parents were in an accident in the orchards, and I needed a place to stay until they were able to come home and work again. Sometimes I wonder if she saw through it, but I was grateful either way with a place to stay. Her parents weren't around much, and that was fine with me. I had come to distrust anyone with authority. One day, after turning down the alley I took as a short-cut to the small, rundown shack, something caught my eye. A large poster, with the corners turn and the image faded from the sticky heat. An advertisement for the 42nd Annual Hunger Games. That's when I finally discovered my way out. Whenever I was home alone, I began to throw the kitchen knives into a small tree out back. A stole an axe from an old man down the street, and taught myself how to hurl it with ease. I began to lift bricks I took from a torn down house I passed on the way to the fields, and started to run daily. I finally had to leave the depressing, yet secure house I had called home for a few months. I had caught wind that a new baby was born to the drunk on the other side of town, and I knew right away who it was. I opened the door without knocking, and strode in like I owned the damn place. My mother gaped at me as I stomped over to the lump in my step-dad's arms. I was welcomed back with a shove, causing me to stumble over a decrepit wooden chair. I tried to move in to see the baby again, this time to receive a slap in the face.

"You're not a part of this family," he growled.

How right he was. I thought maybe if I came back with a decent attitude, something would change. But nothing did. I continued to fend for myself, finding my own food, putting together my own clothes, and finding other things to take the place of love. I tried to hate my brother, whom I found was called Lucas, to resent him for taking away everything I could've had, but I couldn't bring myself to. He was everything I wasn't, that is true. But I loved his pale skin, so much unlike mine; I inherited my father's dark, hard skin; and his silky blonde hair; opposite my dark coarse waves. His sunny disposition was adored next to the blank, hardened girl, a woman too fast that was his sister. He was an obvious favorite. I still supplied and cared for myself, with no one by my side, while Lucas always had a full belly and a hug awaiting him. Sometimes he tried to defend me when his father lunged after me, slinging insults. Once, he even tried kicking him with his chubby, toddling leg. I continued working, surviving, and whenever I could spare time to myself, training. I worked ferociously with my sickle in the field, sometimes pretending corn stalks and other vegetation were enemies in the Games, making people fear me even more than they did before. People back home think I'm crazy, certainly. I only let on that I'm a gruff, edgy girl, nothing but an angry old soul, vengeful of who knows what. If only people knew the hurt I feel.

The whistle of the train reminded me that I had succeeded in finding my escape. Next to stomach, which had never in my life been so full, I was glad I had made this decision. I even felt good about volunteering for the tiny, blonde thirteen year-old that was originally reaped. My parents didn't come to see me in the Justice Building. Anabelle came by, the girl who had taken me in what seemed like a lifetime ago, the only person who saw through my tough front enough to offer me kindness. She carried on her hip, Lucas; his eyes were usually lit with joy, but now, they dripped with tears, his long lashes clumping together.

"You're a stupid sister for doing that! Stupid!" he pouted. Then he stormed away without even offering me one last hug.

"He didn't mean it," Anabelle sighed. There was an edge of doubt in her soft, airy voice. She made me swear to come home, which I knew I would. But even now, as the roar of the engine leading me into battle lulled me to sleep, I wondered if I was a "stupid sister". Maybe the Games would be one challenge I couldn't grit my teeth and get through.

Forgive my late update, I spent this weekend Josh Hutcherson hunting, since I live a short distance away from him and am slightly obsessed. Also forgive the crappiness of this chapter, this was one of my favorite sets of characters, and I don't feel like I did any of them justice. There are probably an abundance of typos in here too, try to ignore them, I had a major migraine while typing it! Thanks for all of your reviews!


	5. Arrival in the Capitol

**Bennett Howard; 18; District 3**

I've never been a fan of humans. They were prone to standing in my way, in both a physical and mental aspect. They tended also to babble extensively on subjects of little importance, partially due to the fact they are grossly unintelligent. But as it seems, one of their greatest flaws, is their judgment. Even my own assumptions were occasionally inaccurate. For instance, standing inside my temporary abode, gazing out of the window towards the foreign city below, I could see the Capitol had been largely overrated. Nothing but an urban wasteland, built on the struggles of another. A sorry excuse for a leader is one that thrives on the support of others. Not a government, but a contradiction. But I digress. Striding closer to the glass, the greatest case of poor judgment lies just inches from my dark eyes. Who could possibly be more frequently mislabeled than Bennett Howard?

I walk away from the view, turning directly into the large bathroom provided for me on these few short days. I poke my head into the shower, taking a moment to prod at the panel of buttons and dials on the inner wall. I find one that sends a spurt of pinkish foam onto my head, and I jerk away immediately. I'll have time to fiddle with that later. The bothersome team of stylists will be here in a single hour, bent on remaking me into someone I am not. I am lead back to misjudgment again. Must it always be part of my being? Not for long.

Staring into the broad mirror, I see messy black hair, translucent skin, and a slightly crooked nose. My external appearance is what people grasp the fastest. They usually don't bother to look any further. Those who have the mental capacity to, however, find not much more worth studying. They see just another aspiring inventor, awkward and introverted, stand-offish and nerdy. Quite often, I'm sure they see a shadow of my twin brother, Lennox. Lennox had plethora friends. Lennox's genes may have been a bit kinder to his features. In comparison to the flashy technology he produced to share around with his friends and the whole of the District, I seemed to be of mediocre intelligence.

But once again, how wrong people's intuition can be. Thankfully I had figured this out at a young age. How simple-minded some members of our society can be, how easily I could deceive them. They wondered why it was that I was so reclusive. We all have our own hidden agenda. Who would have guessed that gawky, stumbling Bennett would have such a skeleton in his closet? In District 3, it's incredibly disapproved; nearly illegal; to keep any discovery to yourself. Any knowledge, on even the most trivial of subjects, is to be immediately taken to the lead scientist for further examination, or the Hall of Scientific Records for documentation. But what of what relevance is that? How do you expect to further yourself, to expose your full capabilities, if every bit of your genius is dismissed to every corner of the entire country? That's why not even my brother, my closest friend, knew of my ulterior motives. My parents barely had a grasp of who I was as a person. They preferred their children to become independent at a young age, to foster themselves up in our family of six. They surely heard the clicks and bursts of sound coming from my room, but had clearly ignored it. It would be a shock to everyone when I returned home, victor of the Games, revealing inventions tucked away deep in my bedroom, lab, and mind, beyond the magnitude of anything they could comprehend. I didn't find my goal selfish or cruel; merely a sagacious and well-calculated route to success.

People wondered often why I was so reclusive, why I didn't associate with many people beyond the confines of a laboratory. They asked why my head was constantly buried in a book, or the notepad I toted constantly in case I needed to jot down a loose thought. My preparation team burst in through the door as I wrapped up my thoughts. I considered the Games my practice, my first chance to show others how poorly they misconceived Bennett Howard. Soon, they would all know.

**Marley Deerlard; 16; District 8**

The silky sheets were damp with sweat and tears. I had tried to keep up a happy, strong act for the cameras. But as soon as the elevator hit the 8th floor, I took to a run, dashing into my room and locking the door behind me. I could only play the sweet girl with fight for so long. If I thought too hard about things before, it was nothing compared to now. There were so many things to imagine, so many ways I could die. I stood up, only to slump down against the cold wall again. I wiped my tears, willing them to disappear before the Opening Ceremonies tonight. I picked at my nails, dipped purple in left-over dye from the dress factory my family and I work in. I tapped my head on the wall, wondering if maybe this could be my break. Back home, I didn't live as difficult a life as most people I knew. I had many friends, a happy family, and was fortunate enough to be living in a decent fashion, at least for District 8. But my sunny disposition was the only thing I had going for me. I had barely passed the test to allow me to work in the factories, and completely failed the one needed to operate large machinery. It wasn't my fault; ever since I was young words just jumbled together and made no sense to me; but I've always been a little hard on myself. Maybe I could win this thing, and get back home with a new outlook. I scoffed at the thought.

I shuffled my way into the bathroom, a luxury in the Districts and a thing wildly over-looked in the Capitol. I leaned into the glossy mirror, and tried to look at the positives. Short blonde hair and brown eyes. A wide array of freckles that my mother said lit up my face. Small lips and eyes, a pointy nose. A long neck to match my tall frame. Not too shabby on the outside. I didn't take the time to think of the good things inside. I never felt like I was anything special. The Capitol never cared about personalities or emotions anyways; if they did they wouldn't have the Games to begin with. What I needed was a way to get out alive. I could play up my trouble with learning; maybe pull a few sponsors out of pity. Maybe I could use my close relationship with my brother, how I would love to get back him, my best friend. I could always throw in my arranged marriage to Hellard. He was a sweet boy with pretty green eyes, but it was hard to hide my discontent towards a forced relationship. It was something I tended to ignore, but the Capitol would fall over their feet in attempts to help a girl get back to her poor, grieving first love. I would play sweet and shattered over her missing Hellard, but fierce and determined to make it home. Hardly of which is true. I lay back down in the big bed, feeling another round of tears and tremors coming on. I dug my nails into the fluffy mattress, trying to resist any feeling. I would have no choice to in the Games, might as well start now. There I was again; always thinking ahead. I always seemed to think I was two steps ahead, when really I was left in the behind in the dust. My mother always said I was too anxious, and it never got me anything but confusion. Some people really were calculating and clever; many of which were currently planning my gory death. I thought of the way the girl from District 1's eyes gleamed, how even the 12 year old boy from 6 smirked with knowing. Suddenly my plot for survival seemed irrelevant, forgettable. I felt the tears drip down my face, and this time, I let them come.

**Kyla Montay; 14; District 10**

_PING. _My eyes flung open, causing my eyelashes to skim the cool glass my forehead was pressed against. I heard the elevator pull open, a bright "10" illuminated above the doors. I stared back at the pools of green in my close-up reflection for a moment, trying the find the answer to a problem that would most likely never be solved. How would I survive these Games? I saw in my desperate, sad eyes, that I wouldn't. I exited the elevator, allowing my hand to drag against the carvings along the walls. My escort smiled back at me, a regretting, sad smile. I jerked my lips into a small, quick grin, allowing them to fall again as my head shifted towards the floor. I was never good with first impressions. I had to warm up to people. Once I had gotten the first awkward few meetings out of the way, I was nothing but talkative and friendly. But I didn't have months to slowly work up to winning over the Capitol. I had one week, then my death.

My hand skittered over the door to the male Tribute of District 10's room. I paused, taking a step backwards and allowing my palm to press against the framework. If I leaned towards it closely, it was almost as if I could smell him. I closed my eyes, hoping to conjure up a happy memory. Instead I see the girl from District 6 swinging the mace around her shoulder, straight into the back of his neck.

I picked up most of my traits from my brother. No one remembered Danny Montay, I'm sure. His short experience with the 43rd Hunger Games consisted of a mediocre interview, an average training score, and brutal death only hours after the first fight at the Cornucopia. How I wished Panem could've seen the bubbly side of him I knew, the side that was really, truly extraordinary. Instead, the only side they became familiar with was his back, protruding with the evil spiked club.

A lot of people saw him in me. Soon enough they'd find we had more in common than subtle congeniality and a shy grin. Both of our blood would be lost to the Hunger Games. I willed myself to walk further down the hallway, to the large room that houses the District 10 girl. She won that year. Bo Givens. Long ago, she had been friends with Danny. I remember one day, she was publically whipped for jumping bare-back onto one of her neighbor's horses and riding straight into the center of town at full speed, nearly killing several people.

"She's different," he used to say, "But you'll warm up to her."

I suspected he wanted her as more than a friend, and maybe they were. I'd never know. That was before she watched him and 22 others murdered before her eyes. Nowadays she was snippy, inconsiderate, on top of being even more than just a little bit insane. She shaved her head on the train and threw a fork at me for smacking my lips when I ate. When I told her my full name, her head shot up and she looked at me alarmingly; digging her nails into the table until cracks and a bottle of liquor appeared.

Was it worth it? The way Bo went from a happy free-spirit to a flat-out basket case? Were you really a winner if your prize is 23 deaths and a lifetime of pain? I would lose myself in there one way or another.

**Malachi Pike; 15; District 12**

**Personal bloodbath submission.**

I am SO sorry for the long wait! Once I get past the holidays, I'll be able to update daily as promised. Writing Bennett's POV made me realize I actually talk like that in person and should probably tone down my vocabulary. I think it's already obvious which characters will be bloodbaths, unfortunately, seeing as since I had no connection with them and wrote them terribly! The next tributes up will be Gregory Hendrick, Floe Quince, Camellia Embury, and Thorne Marks!


	6. Revised Tributes

I just realized a bunch of my Tribute's info was screwed up on the original list, so here's the update for future reference! I'm halfway done with the Chariots right now and they should be up tonight!

District 1: Phoenix Chase; 15; Female

Linus Santoro; 17; Male

District 2: Averil Alerderline; 16; Female

Gregory Hendrick; 14; Male

District 3: Floe Quince; 16; Female

Bennett Howard; 18; Male

District 4: Majestic Finley; 14; Female

Shea Gondor; 17; Male

District 5: Camellia Embury; 15; Female

Lecktor Thom; 16; Male

District 6: Lia Withers; 12; Female

Burl Lichten; 12; Male

District 7: Joyce Anne Irving; 17; Female

Burka Blaine; 16; Male

District 8: Marley Deerlard; 16; Female

Tim Hart; 16; Male

District 9: Artemis Traymon; 15; Female

Cedar Larkson; 13; Male

District 10: Kyla Montay; 14; Female

Thorne Marks; 18; Male

District 11: Lilla Carter; 18; Female

Arden Wade; 17; Male

District 12: Keishi Taine; 13; Female

Malachi Pike; 15; Male


	7. Chariots

**Gregory Hendrick; 14; District 2**

If there's one thing I've learned from watching 14 years of the Hunger Games, it's that it doesn't matter if you have all the training in the world, the most cunning mind, the most intricate strategy. It wouldn't matter if you had stock piled every weapon in the Arena. If the Capitol didn't want you as their Victor, you wouldn't win. That was the key. I watch as the raven-haired girl from 3 pulls off the shaded visors covering her face and throws them onto the ground. Her stylist narrows her eyes distastefully as her mentor rolls his eyes beneath his glasses, folding his hands and striding away solemnly. I can guarantee she'll be picked off quickly by some Game-maker muttation. Some people think playing the cruelty card will get them an easy ticket back home. Some just can't contain their hatred for the Capitol, their anger at being sent into the Games. They push around the servants and talk back to their prep teams, even sending stinging insults Caesar Flickerman's way. Who in their right minds, even those with brains as small as the Capitolites, would want to bring that person back, to celebrate their victory, to have them come back every year with renewed hostility? You don't bite the hand that feeds you.

I find myself starting to rub away at the thick layer of white paint coating my entire body. We've been completely camouflaged in the stuff, my District partner Averil and I, our blonde hair powered and our frames covered by just enough creamy cloth to not be considered too inappropriate. We've been made to look like statues carved from the marble our masons craft. I don't actually think I've ever seen anyone make a statue in all of District 2; the fine stones are usually sent to District 1 for those purposes; but I wasn't going to be the one to tell my stylist that. I doubt the Capitol would know or care anyways, as long as I smiled and waved, I would make a splash. Averil wasn't much of a charmer. Shy, stand-offish. At first I thought she was playing up a cold angle for the camera's sake, but it ended up that that's just her. I had already tried to work my way onto her good side, but it didn't seem like she had much of one. Right now, before the chariots took off, was my time so get in with the other Tributes. Back home, I was always surrounded by friends. Not because I was cocky or rich or particularly good-looking. I had always had a sort of people magnetism. I had a strong sense of humor and was generally always in a good mood. I could make friends with almost anyone; even these kids who could kill me fifty ways with their bare hands wouldn't be a problem. In fact, if I worked my way into their good graces just enough, I could make most of them avoid my death as long as possible. _Besides_; they'd think; _friendly, witty little Greg_ _couldn't take me out._ And then, I would. Or maybe could use the extra few apologetic seconds they spent questioning ending my life to my advantage. Turn the knife around on them or something. I walked confidently over to the District 1 chariot, knowing I'd be allied with these people by default, us being "Careers", as some called it. Leaning up against the crystal, transparent chariot, the blonde girl whipped around to face me, obviously startled, alerted into kill mode. I make a mental note to keep my eye on her.

"Gregory," I say, a wily grin stretching across my face, "District 2. I think the audience expects an alliance here. Don't want to disappoint the fans now, do we?"

Her jewel-studded brow narrows for a second, then relaxes. She must have finished her calculative once-over and deemed me fit to enlist. She smiles, a smile that doesn't even reach her cold eyes, even her teeth bedazzled with diamonds. Her partner walks over, also embellished head to toe in shimmering silver gems, covered by a matching robe made of plush, golden fur. Not the most interesting costume I'd seen from 1, but anything their District does will be extraordinary in the eyes of the Capitol. His smile is meek, but far more genuine than his partner's. More trusting, probably the weakling of the pair.

"Linus," he says, even gesturing his ornate hand towards mine. I shake it in return, noticing the scratches made in the pure white substance on my palm when I pull away.

"Greg," I muse, when a flicker of ivory catches in the corner of my eye. I turn to find my statuesque counter-part glowering by my side.

"And this is Averil,"

"Phoenix," the District 1 girl finishes cautiously, eying Averil with distrust, and shooting me a sly grin probably meant as a silent joke towards my average partner. She's decided to like me. One tribute down. Linus stands in the background, scratching his neck between the diamonds, looking out towards the concealed, screaming audience. As if we were beneath his notice. Maybe not as kind as I thought.

The stylists and mentors all clap their hands, ready for the ride to begin. I throw a wink towards my allies from 1 as I slide back into our edgy, stone-washed cart. I already have my smile on and my hands ready to wave. People love me. The chariot jerks forward. Show time.

**Floe Quince; 16; District 3**

I looked at my blurred reflection in the shiny metal walls of the big room where the Chariot rides first start. The tight black suit made my body look great, perfect if it weren't for the glints and streaks of metal, lighting up to look like some sort of circuit board or computer chip or who knows what. The black glasses were a solid strip that circled my face, illuminating gold on and off at a steady pace. Any District 3 techie would be thrilled. My obvious moron of a partner picked at his, probably fascinated by its "splendor". Pathetic. Looking at the tributes from 1, shimmering in all of their diamond, golden-furred glory, I knew I had been born in the wrong place.

Not that that was a revelation. My father owned a clothing store in the middle of a dirty District full of wires and gizmos and smoke. I was raised with the rich side of 3, where we cared about important things, not just inventions and quotas. My part was a lot bigger than most people would think, and I intended to let people know that District 3 wasn't as lousy as it seemed. I volunteered, knowing that I could make it. I was strong, beautiful; I even trained with the knives in our kitchen. I would make it in with the Careers; they'd see how promising I was. Then I would win; get to live in the Capitol, somewhere I really belonged. But this electro get-up was not helping me make my case. I flipped my black hair over my shoulder, which to my objection, was left to its natural tight, curly mane. It looked like I had stuck my finger in an electrical socket (humiliating District 3 reference) and was an unruly mess. Back home I liked to brush it to border-line straightness. But my prep team fawned over it, saying the "feral" look was very in this year. They were the experts in that area, sure, but I would not let them have control over how I came off to the audience. I would not be another bloodbath tech-head from 3. I yanked off the blinking glasses and threw them on the ground. Stomping back to my shiny, metal, I caught my mentor, some freak named Beetee, shaking his head sadly at the ground, his glasses nearly sagging off of his face. Disapproving me, hoping I wouldn't make it home. What did he know? Nothing but metals and computers. I would win. I would come back a star. The horses started trotting forward, nearly knocking me to my knees in the process. I caught myself just in time, giving my head a shake and my hair another flip. This is my time.

**Camellia Embury; 15; District 5**

My long fingers flitter up to my hair, only a few inches length just hours earlier, made to look longer with some wig-like hair clips. I feel the tangled knots, the thick, crusted hairspray, reminded me not to touch. It had been styled to look like a victim of electrocution, meant be some sort of joke. It was really more of a smack in the face to my District of mainly power, where electric shocks are a danger that people we know and love succumb to more often that they should. But as my prep team giggled and squealed hopefully, I didn't have the heart to let them down. They covered my eyes with thick black powder, stained my lab coat costume with soot, even made the cuffs around my hands light up and belch out a breathable, fake smoke. I guess I looked kind of cool, by the Capitol's standards. I could use all the help I could get, anyways. I was the underdog here. I wasn't particularly pretty, I knew that much. I was tall, with a boyish figure and pointy facial features. I couldn't throw knives or chuck axes or wield a mace. I wasn't manipulative or strong or charming. Instead of having those qualities that could actually help me out here, what did I have? I was fairly clever, but in ways that could help me crack a good joke, kill a competitor. I'm quick to make friends, which could either save my tail or get me a knife in the back. I was a little awkward, which people back home took a strange liking to. Quirky, they called it. Maybe the Capitolites liked quirky too. I'd seen plenty of seemingly hopeless tributes work their way into Panem's hearts with humor and a little bit of wit. I knew I had to have at least a little chance. I decided to try and mingle with some of my opponents, hoping they wouldn't be that way for long. I locked eyes with the girl from District 11 and started to smile, but her scowl deepened and left me a little shaken. I tried helping the little girl from 6 into her chariot, seeing as she was only 12 years old and on the small side, but she gave me a quizzical look and an awkward sort of grimace. She obviously has her own here. I finally shuffled back to District 5's chariot, defeated, when I ran into someone, scattering the ashes from my outfit onto her shiny tail. A mermaid. District 4's girl.

"Sorry," I muttered repeatedly, trying to brush the stains from her beautiful costume. The more I smacked at it, the darker they got, and I remembered the stuff coated my hands as well.

"It's fine, it's fine!" she said hurriedly, clearly trying desperately to get me to stop in the nicest way possible. I backed away, expecting a verbal beating, when she gave me a smile almost too bright for someone having the luck to be reaped.

"I'll get my stylist to fix it," she giggled, "I'm Majestic, by the way."

"Camellia,"

"Nice to meet you. Good luck!"

She turned and hustled away towards her mentor. So there were nice people here. Majestic. I liked her. My stylist called me back towards my chariot. I jumped on, avoiding the smoke now streaming from my bright wrist cuffs. And for the first time in what felt like a while, I had hope.

**Thorne Marks; 18; District 10**

Working full, twelve hour days since I was 5 I could handle. The assholes back home with too much to say I could handle. Even being reaped into the Games I could handle. But this, I couldn't take. I catch my reflection in District 3's chariot as I walk past, only to feel another tremor of rage shake my body. I was a cow. Not wearing strips of cow hide, as I had seen one year. That would have been acceptable. But a full cow-suit, complete with udders. Udders. Did these people not even have the simple amount of courteousness to know that there isn't even such thing as a male cow before stuffing a District 10's boy tribute in full bovine gear? I finally reached the horses that would lead our pathetic farm animal asses in the City Circle. I stop and pat one behind the ears, scratching in just the right place while I rub the other's nose. I've been riding horses since I could toddle, using them to round up the cattle when they graze too far off. They're probably the only living thing I can stand to be around. No horse has ever snapped or swung at me. If only people had their same qualities. Quiet, loyal, able to be sat upon without any bitching. Sounds nice to me. Unfortunately, people didn't work like that. I had a tendency to smash their noses in when I got the chance. People though I was a jerk. I was strong minded, opinionated, and maybe a little rash, but not a jerk.

My thoughts are interrupted when I glanced down again, my udders concealing my view of the ground. I let out an exasperated sort of yelp, making the horses throw back their manes and whinny.

"Sorry guys," I said as I sulked to the seats in the Chariot. As I hop up, I catch District 8 staring at me with a smirk on his pale face. I'm about to walk over and smack it off, when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I spin around to find another, smaller cow. Kyla. You'd think I'd act just as tough with her as I did with anyone else in my way. But I used to be friends with her brother Danny, who died in the Games a few years back. We weren't the best of friends and he was a year or two ahead of me at school, but we lived next door, so I was always messing around with him and our other friend Bo, the female tribute for that year's Games. She ended up the one to come back, and I didn't talk to her until I was forced into the Hunger Games myself, with her as my mentor. She's even more off than I remember her, but she's still young and strong, not completely wasted away like I'd seen some of the Victors. Kyla took it pretty rough when Danny died, so I'd been easy on her. Besides, she looked an awful lot like her brother. It was a nice way to remember him.

"Time to go", she said, eyes glued on the floor.

So it was. I put on my game face, refusing to be drug down by a stupid costume. The chariot gave a lurch forward, the horses so drilled on this route they could gallop it in their sleep. They break out into a canter, and the bright lights swallow up my vision.

**Well, I went and did it. I've officially fallen in love with almost every single character. It honestly breaks my heart to think about killing some of them, but the show must go on! I think the next chapter will the a quick one of the chariot rides from a Capitol citizen's point of view, probably the same one I'm doing the interviews from, just so you can get a glimpse of everyone's costumes and how they act with the crowd. Let me know what you think!**

**P.S: I am a big Taylor Swift hater, but I can't get enough of Safe and Sound. It's not her style at all, and it's very beautiful. I'm glad it won't be playing in the actual movie though; I think any music with lyrics would be a negative for the movie. Imagine if they played popular songs during the Harry Potter series? Just wouldn't sound right. Anyways, review away!**


	8. A Capitolite's Delight

**Dulce Davindrue; 42; Capitol**

I love pink dresses. I love bee-hive hair-dos. I'm a fan of the spring color scheme and I'm known to enjoy a good glass of cotton candy wine. But there is one thing that tickles my fancy more than any of those things. I'm sure every citizen of the Capitol waits patiently for it all year; The Annual Hunger Games. It's not because I'm a heartless brute who loves the blood and gore. I feel for the Districts, I really do. Not because I'm a rebel, heaven forbid! I simply understand their pain. I had a lot of suffering too growing up; only one bathroom in the whole house, I always got my sister's too-small shoes handed down to me, and I was always one step behind all the latest fashions at school! I had lived in such dreadful conditions for too long; until I married Decimus. The one and only Head Game-maker of the glorious Games.

We were perfect for each other; sipping spirits on the rooftops of only the finest eateries. His proposal was the most romantic, lovely thing anyone could have ever done. He made all of the palm trees in the Arena that year spell out his declaration of love, using the token ring of my favorite fallen tribute to seal the deal. I twisted the golden ring around my finger. It had been re-furbished and fit with diamonds shortly after the wedding, making it shine even brighter than my hair; a dazzling pink, inlaid with glimmering sparkles in every color imaginable. The very image of high-fashion in the Capitol. I styled it into its typical bump, anticipating the night to come. As the wife of one of the most prestigious men in Panem, I was permitted to attend almost every celebration there was to offer for no price; namely, tonight, the Opening Ceremony of the Hunger Games. When the stunning Tributes paraded around the City Circle wearing phenomenal costumes, each trying to show up the other with their ensemble and charm. It was precious, really, how eager the Tributes were to compete, so thrilled to be here in the heart of Panem. The Capitol was always equally happy to host them, to watch them fight for the honor of being Victor or Victress!

When I heard the honk outside, I knew it was my chauffer here to escort me to the debut. I dashed into the gold-plated limousine, careful not to let my heels drag me down. They were rather pricey for shoes, even for someone as wealthy as myself, but they were just calling to me! 8 inches high, the shiny, neon blue glass twisting in a curlicue up to the bright azure heel. They were transparent, flecked with small pieces of real diamonds.

_My thanks to those of District 1!_ I think as the pull up to the special entrance where I will go to find my front-row seat. I find my chair, a plush pink loveseat, the entire Circle laid out before me. As the powerful music kicks on to signify the beginning, I pull out the pamphlet of Tributes I was offered at the door. I like to follow the children in the brochure as they make their debuts, circling and checking the ones that our most appealing in advance. I must get the bets and sponsorship deals started early! I glance back up to see several people in the stands across from me pull out glasses and binoculars. Those poor dears, unable to have the lovely view I was blessed to possess! I was thinking of how much I wished to give all of these less-fortunate Capitolites a chance to live with my lifestyle, when the first chariot sails out just yards from where I sit.

District 1! Beautiful specimens as usual, they never fail to disappoint. Their silky blonde hair is laced with glitter and strings of diamonds, the same ones that coat their body from head to toe. They are stuck on every crevice of their silvery skin, which is only covered by a plush, thick robe of golden furs. The boy waves and smiles, but he seems a little awkward, as if he'd rather be pleasing anyone but the citizens of the Capitol. To think! The girl looks gorgeous; her two front teeth even studded with the shiny stones; yet fierce, smirking at the audience as if to say "I may look pretty, but watch out! I bite!" I giggle to myself. _This is what it's all about!_ I think as I put a star next to her name in my leaflet.

District 2 thunders out next, and I'm not disappointed once again. They are painted head to toe in a white paint, their thin, white togas hardly doing any covering. Even their hair is powdered with white. They have a distinct likeliness to the marble busts of my husband and me at home. I squeal in delight as the boy throws a kiss in my directing, winking and hamming up for everyone in the audience. The girl next to him looms threateningly, although looking as if she was laughing towards herself at some sort of inside joke. She threw out a couple waves, but it was clear she was a force to be reckoned with. Typical from 2 though, nothing too spectacular.

I wasn't expecting much from District 3. I didn't know much of anything from their District; it was all math and science, nothing I had use for. But their skin-tight black suits were illuminated with flashing gold streaks and lights, while their glasses that went straight across their face in a solid line (a new fashion trend, I'm sensing!) contained bulbs that blink fluorescent gold light. I clap and stomp my feet for the girl with the beautiful black curls, with fiery grin on her face standing erect with power, waving and laughing with the audience. Her partner stands, his posture awkward, conveying he might be another "brain over brawn" type to die very early on, but in his scowl I see something more. And it's a bit frightening, to be honest. I put a check next to his name in my pamphlet. Intriguing.

District Four comes out, all smiles. The little girl looks beautiful, dressed as a sparkling mermaid with a rainbow tail. She smiles and waves directly towards me and I blush back; her happiness radiates all over the City Circle and sighs echo and rounds of "aww"'s ensue. Her male counterpart is, in a word, breathtaking. He's lacking a shirt, only covered by a golden sort of skirt on bottom, his blonde hair perfectly sculpted and the threatening trident in his hand gleaming under the lights and flashes on cameras. He blows kisses every way, and I find myself screeching and hopping up to catch one myself. They are both the very image of Tributes, but the girl seems a little soft, while the boy's muscles bulged very visibly. I put a little heart next to the name Shea Gondor.

When District 5 arrives, I can't help but have a fit of giggles. I blush at my outburst and cover my mouth quickly, although everyone around me is gripping their sides as well. Such genius! Their stylist had made them look like victims of the power in which their District helps generate! Their hair stands on ends and the wrist cuffs buzz with electricity, sending smoke pouring out over the Circle. Even their make-up is done to create a "shocked" affect. An instant hit! The girl's red hair adds to the effect of electricity and so does her personality, the way she smiles and jumps towards the audience playfully. The boy next to her stares towards the ground, the smoke from his costume billowing into his pale face. I'm close to marking down the girl, but I remind myself not to trust those who have been glorified by their stylists work, not their own.

I gasp at the sight of them. The two twelve year olds from District 6. Everyone in the Capitol had shed a tear at one point for the poor dears; their miserable luck. They looked minuscule in their large chariot, wearing shiny metal suits, teetering on the wheels that replace their shoes, headlights balancing on their frail shoulders. The little girl blushed and offered small waves towards the audience, completely stealing their hearts with her act of shy innocence. I smiled pitifully at the male tribute, who seemed to be too meek to do anything but pretend the audience wasn't there. When his lips pulled back to reveal a crooked sneer, I realized this was no ordinary little boy. He stood proudly, offering his dark grimace and rolling his eyes at anyone who offered affection his way. I quickly found his name, Burl Lichten, underlining it several times.

District 7's tributes had one of the more lovely costumes from their District; although they were, once again, trees. They had long, flowing branches hanging from a sort of leafy crown atop their heads, the thin limbs twisting through their hair and spiraling down to form a veil around their bodies, some of the tendrils wrapping around them and others simply creating a lush curtain. But it wasn't their costumes that were so appealing. The girl had a look of pure determination on her flushed face, only acknowledging the audience to let a few fingers flick up every so often to let the crowd know that she knew they were there and she would come-to soon, but she had bigger plans on her mind at the time. Love it! The boy was dark and handsome, but that was almost forgettable under his essence of pure power. He too ignored the audience, but in a way much different than the girl. We were simply beneath his level of caring. The audience screamed his name as he seemingly dwelled in anger. I too put a check next to each tribute of District 7.

District 8 was, in a word: precious. Their tributes were wrapped in mismatched hunks of fabric, patched together to look like they were stitched into their skin. Large buttons covered where their eyes would be on their faces; if they weren't made to resemble ragdolls. The children and grown-ups alike in the audience screamed and frantically clapped their hands; everyone wanted a District 8 doll! The lanky girl smiled and waved and flopped her raggedy limbs, and the boy, whose toned figure couldn't be concealed even by the goofy costume, winked and caught kisses from the crowd. Sensational, but nothing too special.

District 9 paraded onto the circle. They were wearing a simple suit and dress spun from golden wheat, with matching crown of the stuff fitting their heads and sticking up and sharp angles. The boy jumped and whooped, interacting with the crowd, who were happy to play back. They hollered back and forth; the boy even broke out into a little dance for a moment, which made the Capitol erupt into peals of laughter. The girl laughed at her partner, shouting along joining in the dance at one point, but the look in her eyes was conflicting. She dug her nails into her palms; most likely to hold back tears. Must be shy, the poor dear!

I'm not sure whether to take District 10 as a joke or not; they are dressed in very cartoon-like cow suits. The girl looks down, holding her hooves behind her back and shuffling one foot on the ground. The audience calls her name, trying to persuade her into putting on a show, put she only peeks her head up every so often to blush, throw out a small wave, and glance back down. I see tears begin to cloud her eyes. Why on earth would you ever be upset at a time like this! The boy crosses his arms over his chest and I think he's pouting, when suddenly a sly grin spreads over his sharp face. Taking a deep breath, he shrugs and leaps over the confines on the chariot, landing on one of the brown horses' back. He pulls himself up into standing position, shifting his feet so that one balances on each animal. He gives out a howl and pumps his fists towards the audience, never once stumbling or showing any fear.

"THORNE! THORNE! THORNE!" the audience cheers.

I find the name and hurriedly jot down a check. He's one to remember.

District 11 is out next. I've always been envious of their deep tans; how come I could never achieve that color, even when I tried? I sighed as the chariot looms into view. The boy and girl are wrapped in husks, forming a sort of horn around their bodies. Large amounts of fruits and vegetables stand balanced on their heads. Cornucopias! The holiday treat we set on our tables at meal times; meant as more of a decoration that a food. The lighter-skinned boy is nearly doubled over laughing at the antics of the tribute in front of him, and continues to smile as he waves and gestures towards the audience. The glint in his eye gives away his own trouble-making spirit; I know he'll be fun to watch in the weeks to come! The girl was a rare breed from such a poor District; she scowled and glowered, clenching her fists so that the very visible muscles up her arms quivered. Although thin from years in one of our more decrepit Districts, she was quite an Amazon; incredibly tall and thick with muscle built up from the fields and orchards I'm sure she worked in. The crowd started to chant her name, but she remained unfazed. Not even a hint of color flushed on her dark cheeks. Lila Carter from District 11 had a check now in my book.

The twelfth District usually does nothing special. But this year, they are fascinating. The two, curly-headed tributes wear the classic black dress and suit, but they are nearly unrecognizable behind the design; they are meant to look like a coal explosion. Extensions of the fabric are dyed in fiery colors; stretched and sent every-which-way, glistening in the bright light and billowing out towards each section of the crowd and more. Their hair is dyed black towards the roots and shades of red and orange towards the tips. It was teased and sprayed to give the same rupturing coal affect as their costumes. The girl stands on her tip-toes to greet the audience and her partner does the same; they are all smiles.

Finally, their jet-black chariot loops around to the front of our President Snow's mansion. As the audience is hushed down and Snow takes the stage, I look down towards my booklet, my guide to the 47th Annual Hunger Games. Recalling the startling images of each alluring Tribute, I can't help but feel that these are already the best Games yet.

**There we have Dulce Davindrue, our guide to the Capitol side of the 47****th**** Hunger Games. Any of her views on the Tributes (comments, who she marked down, etc.) are NOT reflective of my views or foreshadowing in any way. They are purely how I think any daft Capitolite would react. You'll also meet Decimus Davindrue, the Head Gamemaker soon! I will be doing several chapters here and there from their view, as well as some of the Tribute's friends and family back home. Also, I'm starting to do research on Arena ideas, and I think I've narrowed down my final few. I will NOT be doing anything sci-fi and out-there, like a land made of mirrors or outer space or any strange set-up. I'll either be doing a terrain or something man-made… but it's a secret! Let me know which one you prefer so I can make my decision sooner! Excuse any typos and review away!**


	9. Training

**Averil Alderdine; 17; District 2**

"Finally," I breathe as the slick metal base of the spear slips through my fingers. I don't bother to watch where it goes. I know where it'll hit; and it's confirmed by the looks on the near-by Tribute's faces. I catch my "allies" huddled by the sword area out of the corner of my eye. Gregory gave a whoop at my little show with the spear. He gestures towards the group in a sort of "I told you so!" manner. They didn't think I was anything special.

_Shows them,_ I think as I hurl another spear into a target, striding away before it even fully leaves my grasp. A smile twitches at the corners of the girl from 1's agape mouth, her eyebrows raised in pleasant shock. What was her name again? Phoebe? Who knows? I didn't much associate with them; or anyone, for that matter. Who wanted to be friends with creepy, fierce Averil? I don't have much going for me; the only time I felt at peace was when I had a weapon in my hand in determination in my heart.

I bump into the little mermaid from 4 as I reach the rack of knives; she says something but I'm not paying attention. What would I say anyways? I'm too concerned with the hundreds of gleaming blades; my blues eyes reflecting awe in the shiny metal. I grab three and hurl them into a smooth dummy, each one plunging into its plastic belly. I toss around a few more, practice jabbing a few with the longer daggers. I finally was starting to feel like Averil; not cold, bitter, void of emotion Averil. But the real me, the me that rarely made an appearance. But when I saw the Trainers nod their heads in my direction and the various looks of dread and jealousy in my competition's eyes, I felt it. That rare, fleeting feeling. Confidence. I wasn't a nothing here. I had originally volunteered just so that my training wouldn't go to waste. What did I have to lose, anyways? No family, no friends, not much worth in general. I looked back towards my allies. My mood had lightened significantly, border-line happiness, an occurrence as rare as my sudden raise of certainty. The boy from 4 had joined them, as expected. He winked in my direction, and I gave a sort-of wave back. Maybe I would open up to them, be a little friendlier. But with my chances of survival as high as I had come to see they were, I wasn't sure it was necessary. Others will still as beneath my notice as I was to them. I picked up a heavy dagger, twirling it towards one of the bulls-eye's at the archery station across the floor. I didn't care about the other kids gaping, taking mental notes to avoid me in the weeks to come. This is the only place where I wasn't painfully shy. I looked back over my shoulder. A perfect hit.

**Burl Lichten; 12; District 6**

I almost laughed out loud every time some sappy Capitol chump sighed at the "poor little boy from District 6". These idiots really fell for me being a child. Technically, I was, I suppose. But I'd learned long ago that this world is no place for innocence. It's eat or be eaten. Not that any of these freaks would ever have to put that phrase to use. I'd bet their idea of 'survival of the fittest' is beating out another babbling dunce on a hot pursuit for the lipstick stand. They are ripe for the pickings, I'll give them that. If only I had more time to spend here, I could rob them below the poverty line. But unfortunately, there's a chance I might never come back. A small chance. Looking around, it's plain to see these kids are going nowhere. Either teary-eyed schmucks or over-confident jar-heads, all brawn no brain.

I walk over to the knives, where the girl from 2 was previously wreaking havoc. It was a little chilling, I'll admit, but it'd be far too easy to dash up and stab her right in the back, before she could even process it. I grabbed a dagger, gripping the pointed end between my two forefinger and thumb; recreating the delicate method I watched her execute so many times. Jerking my hand forward, it sunk straight into the dummy's blank, cloth face. Not bad, considering I'd never touched a blade in my life. All I had to do was watch the girl screw around with one a few times, easy as pie. After throwing a few more until I could get a good stick without fail, I walked over to the swords. The boy from 1 was there, since the typical alliance of 1, 2 and 4 had finally dispersed to attempt to intimidate the others with their weaponry skill. We called this usual group the 'Freight Trains' back in 6. It was pretty clever; and I'm sure the pack would take it as a compliment if I told them. But as strong and mighty as the freight train may seem, they are slow, clunky, malfunctioning cans on wheels, falling much out of favor next to the smooth high-speed electric trams we have today. I can't even remember the last time I'd seen a freight leave the District. Much like the tough yet brainless 'Freight Train' tributes rarely leave the Arena. The District 1 boy, Linus I remember his name being, gives me a little grin, probably thinking he's giving me a ray of hope with his kindness. For a second I consider playing up this meek front, but I suppose my lack of good taste wins out. I sneer back, rolling my dark eyes and snatching up the lightest looking sword I can find. I'm not completely naïve; I know I'm not as strong and well-trained as the other Tributes. But that doesn't stop me from pretending I am. It's harder to imitate Linus's moves with the sword than it was picking up the knives, but after a bit, I can plunge it into the mannequins with a fair amount of ease. I try out all the stations I can, mostly to scope out the competition. By the end of the day, after watching Tribute after Tribute fail to impress, I'm reassured I'm the only one worthy of being Victor. No more life as a Community Home rat for me. I can't say I won't keep up my stealing after I win, though. I snicker while imagining some fat-ass Capitol woman screeching about her missing jewels, shaking her stupid blue wig off. I'm surrounded by idiots.

**Arden Wade; 18; District 11**

District 7 was giving me the evil-eye, and I didn't like it. I thought about going over there and seeing if he could hold up the tough-guy act, but the axe in his hands stopped me. I may be brash, but I'm not stupid. I'll bet there's a rule against that sort of thing here anyways. Not that I was much of a follower of those things back home, but here it was different. Definitely not the same-old same-old of life in District 11.

Glaring about the training floor with a frown I'm sure out-matched anything District 7 could pull up, I saw the other Tributes were tearing up targets and juggling weapons; but I decided just to cruise. I was pretty well-known for walking around in 11. I'd get caught creeping through yards and alleys after curfew all the time; most people thought that from the scuffles and broken bottles that tended to surround my friends at night that I was roaming around looking for trouble, but that usually wasn't the case. Sometimes I just liked to be alone, clear my head. Although I was usually surrounded by friends in the fields and a few enemies in the streets, I was used to being alone, and I liked it more than getting into brawls and mischief- most of the time. My dad was a volunteer Peacekeeper; an opportunity that was always open for those in District 11. People rarely took it though; although you got much more food and cash than the average citizen, lots of people felt like it was betrayal, like working with the Capitol. They kept it sort of hush-hush from the President and the other big guys, but they always needed more "protection" for our big home. My dad rarely did anything intimidating, but he was never at the house, and the only bit of my mom I saw was a clean room when I got home from school in the afternoons. She was one of the night-workers in the orchards. So I was home-free.

The short guy from 4 chucked one of those big tridents into a table across the room, pushing me back into more important thoughts. I'd been into lots of fights before, but nothing too serious. I was always just backing up one of my friends, or getting back at a moron for running his mouth about me. I'd never had to really fight for myself before, and now I'd be battling for my life. I'd already ruined any rough act I could've played up for sponsors when that fool from District 10 hopped up on those horses on the chariot. It was always too easy to make me laugh, and my goofiness messed up a lot of man-points for me back home. The crowd seemed to like me enough as just me, but just me wouldn't cut it in the Hunger Games. I was strong from working in the fields, but I needed to buff up a bit. I'd have to pick up some weapon soon enough. But what I really needed was an ally. I may like solitude, but I'd never been too far away from my friends. I needed someone to have my back, and I'd have theirs.

I stopped strolling and looked around again. The little girl from 6, the pretty lady from 9, the beefy guy from 8. I could make friends with all of these people, but I had to be more calculating than that now. Lila, the girl from my District, was tough of course; but a little too tough, not friendly enough for my liking; or anyone's for that matter. She was a nice girl, just another one turned bitter by the Capitol. I remembered the District 10 guy who made me laugh on Opening Night; he already had my back in a way, making to loosen up a little for the crowd. He was flinging a rope he tied around a trainer, yanking him yards backwards; strong, too. I went up and tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around.

"What the hell?" he started. Maybe I didn't like him after all.

"Easy big guy, just saw that thing you did with that rope, wondered if you'd care to show me how it's done,"

"Why, so you can use it to snap my neck later? I don't think so. Back off," He retorted.

Definitely an ass, not the kind of guy I want to be stuck hanging around for what could be the rest of my life. I flicked the stupid-looking hat off his head and turned onto the sword floor, where District 1 was shredding it up and no one would dare to follow me. I decided to lap around the place another time. I could use a little relaxation at a time like this.

**Keishi Tayne; 13; District 12**

Mother always told me that if I was reaped, to lay low. Stay hidden, don't call any attention to yourself, and wait for the others to kill each other off. I never thought I'd ever have to put her advice to use. But now, her words buzzed through my head, reminding me not to ask for axe lessons from the girl from 7, or show the struggling boy at the fire station how to make that flint spark. This was no place for a people person. Especially not me. I don't think I had ever hurt someone in my life, not their bodies or feelings. I couldn't work with any weapons, even the smallest of blades was intimidating for me. There were other ways of surviving, I suppose. A girl from 11 won a few years ago by sticking it out until the others died of starvation. But she still had to drive a sword into the other final Tribute's belly. Maybe if I got lucky enough, I could pull off her tactic too, maybe even avoid having to be part of any deaths. I was used to being hungry; my family never had enough money or food. We weren't living in the Seam, as my father did odd jobs for the shop workers and my mother worked a laundry business instead of toiling in the mines, but the shacks on the outskirts of the merchant section were just as run-down as any other part of 12.

I had other things working in my favor as well. I wasn't the youngest Tribute here, for one. But the twelve year old girl from 6's knowing eyes darted about in the way only a true survivor could, and the boy could chill you to the bone with mere eye contact. Even the boy from 9, who looked to be about my age, could swing a scythe around as well as charm everyone who approached him. I walked over to the bow and arrows, picking one up and aiming it towards the target. I pulled back the string, and the arrow spun dreadfully out of control, hitting a target three rows over, where the girl from 8 was practicing as well. She looked down at the arrow she had in place, ready to let fly, as if checking to make sure she hadn't let it go on accident. She looked form left to right, obviously confused. I slunk away, with my mother's warning repeating in my mind, giggling despite myself. At least I tried! I tugged on one of my spiral curls; pulling it down to the bottom of my ribs and watching it sharply bounce back up.

Suddenly a whizzing noise beside me caused me to leap sideways; the girl from District 3 was flinging knives, and she laughed out loud at my terror. I wasn't like these people. I didn't want to win for glory or riches or to wreak havoc on the Capitol. I didn't want to be here in the first place, never in a thousand years. I just wanted to make it home to my family, to my friends in back home, to my safe bed. All of the cold suffering of 12 never put me down before; the fearsome Capitol could never choke my optimism. But I had lost hope that even my light could shine through what would most likely be my death.

Sorry this took so long, guys! This is the absolute longest I'll ever take between chapters! I've already written private training, and I'm starting on the interviews soon. I already have the arena and first day mapped out as well, and I have a basic feel of how the Games are going to go. This is the final group of Tributes, so now if you haven't already; PLEASE let me know about how you feel about how I've written your Tribute and who your favorite few are so far! Feel free to give me any criticism as well!


	10. Gamemaker Sessions

**Decimus Davindrue; 45; Capitol**

When people first meet the head Gamemaker, they expect a jovial man, one who frequently offers a humorous comment or a hand to shake. A positive disposition, camaraderie with every lowly citizen he meets. Well, you don't get a position like mine being benevolent. I simply have no patience with others, be it a pathetic Tribute or high-ranking official. They're all the same to me. Not to say I don't partake in the benefits of being one of the most wealthy, powerful man in Panem. I enjoy the unlimited food and drink, the countless number of women who throws themselves my way. I have a wife, of course; the trilling nag. I keep her to save face; shove a few jewels her way and she'll leave me alone long enough to do my work. Beyond her, I'm free to do practically whatever I wish. Namely preparation for my only pride and joy; The Hunger Games. Years ago, I was merely in charge of directing the sponsor-sent parachutes to the emaciated hands of the Game's worthless players; but someone saw I was something more. I had just been punished for using one of the floating gifts to "mistakenly" guide a more bloodthirsty Tribute to another, sealing their untimely demise. It was a favorite past-time of mine, usually over-looked, but this time I had done it in the eyes of a man with infinite power, limitless glory- President Snow. He has always been a frequent visitor to the behind-the-scene action of the Games, and had been looking over my shoulder, following my actions as I maneuvered the silver parachute towards the small boy, the girl from District 8 clearly tracking its path the entire time. The Head at the time sent me away quickly, flustering apologies to the President as he flung his hands out towards me. As I trudged outside, the cold wind stinging my cheeks, I heard a voice behind me;

"There's other ways of making it," he mused. I wheeled around to be nearly knocked directly back with the powerful, flower-disguised scent of blood, "When you think like us."

Like us? How could President Snow and I possibly- that's when it all added up. His speedy, sudden rise to power, the bleeding sores constantly festering in his mouth, the questionable deaths of everyone previously above him. I smiled. Poison. It was easy making my way to the top after that. And now, here I sit, over-seeing the private training for the Tributes of the 47th Hunger Games. I had been keeping a decent eye out for any Tributes of exception, though I had learned from great experience not to judge how they act during that time. They're usually saving themselves, and sometimes you could I no way prepare yourself for what is to come. Some of them really surprise me; for citizens of the Districts, it's remarkable how beautiful, fierce, and talented some of them can be. Shaking my broad shoulders beneath the soft, silken cloak that marked my power, I held down the intercom button.

"District 1 male," I glanced down at my sheet, where all of the Tribute's names were neatly typed in golden ink. I rarely bother to remember their names. I'd never met a child with a personal title for each of his toys, so why should I?

"Linus Santoro," I read.

A typical District 1 brand, the handsome blonde boy crossed into the room with a straight face, immediately heading towards the more enticing weaponry. His toned arms flexed as he warmed up with the sword, inflicting serious damage on a good portion of our dummies. Nothing I hadn't seen from one of our finer District's before. He strode over to the rack of mannequins, taking five up into his arms. I took note of his physique, although I was not sure when he was planning to really dazzle me. That's when he grabbed a spear, and with one hand, sent a thick foam dummy spiraling into the air, skewering it through the tough chest before it had even a chance to float down. He did this again and again, each time more impressive, and each time with renewed energy. I had seen enough to know that this boy would do great things in the Arena.

"You may go now, Mr. Santoro."

He exited with a curt nod. Not much charm to him, I noted. Leaning onto the intercom, I read off,

"District 1 female, Phoenix Chase,"

Chase. I knew that name. And as the strawberry blonde with fierce eyes appeared in the doorway. Bennet Chase, Victor of the 32nd Hunger Games. The winner of the first Games I had ever had the pleasure of conducting. I can still feel my chest swelling with pride as I recalled the strong young boy pumping his fists in triumph. The girl froze in the doorway, probably intimidated by the legacy left behind by her father. It entered my mind that this little lady may not have inherited his fight, when suddenly she took off at a full sprint, flipping over a table set with knives, snatching off two in the process, and rolled into an upright position, flinging the daggers into a beautiful arch straight into the padded wall. A Chase after all. Knowing she had already made her mark, she continued to fiddle with the other arms, showing a fair amount of skill with each. She wasn't as pretty as most of the girls from 1, the ones who I could have my way with after Victory, a gift for "sparing" them. Smarter than the average one too. But maybe I could get lucky…

"You may go, Ms. Chase," I paused to watch her strut out of the door; "District 2 male, Gregory Hendrick."

Gregory was a rarity from his District. He didn't have that vicious glare, that brutish attitude. No, he played it a different route. A cleverer one, I'll give him that. Two usually reaps the standard brawny warrior; although he had his fair share of muscle, the boy was pure wit. He danced with the sword while carrying a conversation with my fellow panel of Gamemakers, taught one of the better looking ladies his bow and arrow technique from afar, and even tossed her a sliver of wood from a climbing tree carved with his name after executing his excellent knife skills. Quite frankly, although his charming humor would win him points with the crowd, he made me sick.

"Your time is up, Gregory," I announced. Scribbling down a few more notes, I called out his female counterpart, Averil Alderdine. I continued taking notes on the previous three as she came in; I didn't need to judge any further as it was clear from just three days of training, she was exceptional at everything she touched. I heard the spears thump into the targets, the maces whizzing around, the swords cutting through the air. The girl shot a flustered glare my way; probably thinking she hadn't fazed me a bit with her talents. She'd get over it once she saw her score illuminated amongst the rest.

"You are dismissed, District 2 female." I didn't call her by her name purposely, just to watch her tongue-tied, befuddled expression before storming out, allowing the doors to swing shut with a bang.

I was still chuckling as District 3's Bennett Howard entered the room. I almost laughed even harder at the sight. Another gangly District 3 boy who thinks he might stand a chance with only his brains on his side. But even as the boy struggled on every station he approached, I could sense something else to him. And I liked it.

His District partner, Floe Quince, was something different. I'd seen kids trying to imitate the skills of Districts 1 and 2 before, but never one from District 3. She could handle a blade with a decent amount of skill though, and run faster than anyone yet. I didn't over-look her wild curls and curvy figure, either. You rarely get a good looking broad from 3, and they're usually too smart and proud to wind up with me for a while anyways. This one, I could see.

The male from District 4 immediately swaggered in, winking at all of the ladies and giving me a friendly nod. Ah yes, Shea Gondor, the casinova of the Games. Every female in the Capitol was swooning over the pretty-boy. Frankly, after the nod, I didn't like him. But as soon as he wielded that trident with meticulous diction even more beautiful than his tan body, I knew he would go far. He tinkered around with the other items, but even after showing his competence with those, nothing matched his forte with the jagged skewer. Of course, the District 4 competitors were known for pumping out the occasional Games-ready Tribute; and this boy clearly had his share of prepping.

I set myself up to be amazed from Majestic Finely from 4, seeing how much her partner had dazzled me. But she completely grazed over the battle stations with a warm smile on her face, immediately heading over to the less-visited survival stations instead. She passed with flying colors and turned to face me with that silly hopeful grin, as I stared back waiting for her to reach over for the bows, a harpoon, anything. But we continued our stare-off until I realized she would do no such thing.

"Is that it?" I inquired. Even the ferocious players with incredible talents couldn't mystify me as much as this girl had.

The light fell from her eyes even though the corners of her mouth were still pinned up.

"Yes sir," she piped as her brow furrowed. Her funeral.

The boy from 5 was pathetic; approaching the roping station and giving up after two useless knots, using the rest of his time to mope around the floor. I didn't even bother to remember his name.

Camellia Embury flounced in and impressed me in a different way, a way few others would see and understand. The girl dashed around, blindly handling everything in sight. She clearly had no idea what she was doing, but at times she nearly even convinced me she could operate them with ease. I few of the lesser Gamemakers around me gasped and slipped out a few sounds of admiration, clearly not bright enough to see that in weaponry, this girl didn't stand a chance. The others scoffed at her pathetic attempts, waving this girl off with a 2, ossibly 3. But I saw more; she was smart, and occasionally, that alone could win the Hunger Games.

There were two "babies" of the Games this year; but this one was no innocent. Burl Lichten slunk in, grimacing towards us with his terribly mangled teeth. Certainly unattractive, no charm whatsoever; but the boy had obviously made good use of his rough District life. The way he moved stealthily about, how his you could see him calculating every move, every decision in his eyes. He was clearly a street rat, although it didn't transfer over in the way he worked on the training floor. Some of my workers even insisted upon looking into the establishment of an illegal Trainging Center in 6, but I knew better. I saw him staring at the way the wealthier Tribute's handled their weapons, the scheming look on his face. The observant little bastard could roughly replicate any move; his technique was poor and his endurance was little, but he held incredible promise.

I called Lia Withers of District 6's name three times before she seemingly materialized on the center of the floor. My team and I exchanged several glances, each of us wondering how she managed to slip in undetected. For a 12 year old from a District like hers, she had effectively caught my attention. She frisked around with a few daggers, managed to utilize them not with trained ability, but with enough efficiency to get the job done. She passed through the basic survival tests easily, and as I called her to leave, figuring she had finished showing an ability she had, she retrieved two loaves of bread, an apple, and an entire baked partridge from the corner of the room and silently placed them before me, and quickly darting out of the room. My eyes shuffled about the table around me filled with food, wondering how and when she could have taken it right underneath our noses. No easy, young kills this year.

Barka Blaine came in with a scowl that could even make me flinch, had I not had the power to grind him to dust with the push of a button. He was clearly a born fighter. The impressive amount of weight he lifted right away was nothing compared to his axe skill; nothing new, coming from District 7, yet I couldn't judge based on boredom. It was impressive all the same, I suppose; especially when he took a huge risk in chopping down one of the artificial, yet still strong-standing climbing trees in the Training Area. Destroying Capitol property may have lost him personal points amongst the Gamemakers, yet with the few strokes used to take down the massive tree, his Training score could only skyrocket. I could see a flaw in his hardened, aloof angle, however; as ferocious and powerful as he was, he didn't want to win for the fame and honor. The boy simply wanted to return home, to his life, his family, maybe even a girlfriend. And those determined spirits were some of the more entertaining to break.

Joyce Anne Irving was a prodigy with the axe as well as Barka. Better even, in terms of technique. The axe fit naturally in her hand, as if her fists themselves were fitted with blades. But when she dropped the hatchet and strode over to the bow and arrows, I saw this girl's cross to bear. She was an unnecessarily persistent, headstrong to a fault. She was clumsy with the archery, awkward whilst swinging maces, and plain useless at throwing stars; yet too proud to let herself fail.

Shea Gondor may be the pretty-boy of the Games, the classic beauteous flirt, but Tim Hart's rugged looks and manly charm were something different. Something about him, the masculinity, the lack of effort, was enticing for everyone in Panem; particularly the ladies. He shuffled in, offering a half-smile that caused half of the ladies in the room to blush and let out a heavy breath. There was no doubt he would have received a decent score from that alone; but he knew his way well around a knife. It wasn't often a male had the meticulousness to throw a dagger precisely, but he did this with ease. His ability to work a blade of any size from any distance would be as much in his favor as his unrefined lure.

Marley Deerlard flitted from station to station, versatile and able to manipulate everything; but that was her problem. She could do everything, not exceptionally, not great, not even necessarily well. Decent. The girl from District 8 was pretty enough, which could pull a few sponsers. But she had better have exceeding cunning and a trick up her sleeve to be able to survive.

District 9's Cedar Larkson was something I looked forward to every year, usually to be let down. Happiness. A Tribute full of joy, ready to be brought down by my iron fist. I tapped my feet underneath the heavy table with anticipation as he chatted with each of the Gamemakers, causing, doing the impossible by lightening the mood. He was inept with a scythe, a weapon of rare use even for those from the grain District. But the boy was a tragedy waiting to happen, and I couldn't wait.

Artemis Traymon shyly peered into the doorway when called, treading lightly out to the center of the floor. She ran a few rounds on the track with impressive speed, her breath not quickening once, and attempted to throw a few spears. In the middle of her dull display, she tripped, causing the rough edge of the mats to scrape the delicate-looking skin of her knee. She paused, kneeling on the floor, staring intently at the thickening blood. Standing up suddenly, she began to look around frantically, shaking at every sound that echoed throughout the vast room. She crouched next to the rack of knives, gripping one and running the pointed edge along her finger. Her arms trembling as she moved it this way and that, as if unsure of it's function. Finally, she spun around and frantically dug it repeatedly into a cotton dummy, occasionally yanking herself back in attempt to stop, but letting those inner demons take over. Those around me laughed and clapped at the show. I had been forewarned of this girl's history prior. Paranoia like this was a rare case in the Capitol, and even then it was easily curable. Multiple personalities such as this were a common after-effect of traumatic events; some of our own Victors suffered from it. The girl had clearly been exposed to unnerving violence at some point in her sorry life. She has behaved quite normally the past three days of Training, and I hadn't received any word of havoc caused by her hands. The slight injury from her fall had triggered this exceptional act of savagery; and if meager smears of blood could cause such an explosive reaction, who knew the fun he could have with her in the arena?

After having District 9's female forcibly removed, Thorne Marks of District 10 trudged onto the padded flooring. Although his skills didn't show it, the boy was deadly. A hot-head, too. I had watched him spit in anger at the Trainers and shout towards every Tribute that looked funny in his direction. Rage can get you pretty far into the Games, but it eventually becomes the downfall of these rash firebrands. He made a splash with his bit with the horses on Opening Night, but in Training, his only real endowment was with his rope; which can come in handy, of course, but a lasso or a noose can only help so much against a hulking beast with a cutlass. He made decent headway with a sword, but it paled in comparison before the work of those before him.

I remembered when Danny Montay took a club to the head in the hands of Sailor Seis from 6 quite fondly; he had been one of those happy-go-lucky player whom I loved to watch squirm in their final moments. I was hoping Kyla Montay, his young sister, would be similar. But the shy girl barely made eye contact, let alone conversation. She had standard results at the survival tests, and struggled with a sword. Her spears hit the mark a suitable percentage of the time, yet she still lacked the edge to survive. Perhaps I'd arrange little Lia Withers to bash her in her pretty, brown-haired head, give a little laughable irony. Both Montay's lost to District 6 underdogs. What a sight it would be!

Arden Wade was typical of District 11. He milled around with no real purpose, messing with everything but succeeding at nothing. He had a threatening look to him, his dark eyes glowering, enhancing the deep creases in his worn face. One of the other Gamemakers must have been pondering the same thing, because I heard a boisterous voice pry,

"Surely there's something more you have to offer!"

Arden shot daggers with his eyes behind his mop of hair.

"I could say the same for you," he flung back. Turning on his heels, he exited with a flourish before I had a chance to release him. Insulting those in authority is never a good choice; but we in the Games, we have a show to put on, and this little outburst may work in his favor.

Lila Carter was, in a word: fierce. A deadly character, too rough and hardened to be referred to as a girl. The woman was tall, thick with muscle despite the conditions of District 11. This girl was a survivor, and would not be taken down easily. In fact, she may be the one to beat. Her light brown skin glistened with sweat and her green eyes were daunting behind her scowl as she worked wonders with the knives, the axes, even a sickle. The girl was pure willpower. This could make her, or, it could become fun to slowly break her.

I called in Malachi Pike, District 12's Tribute, not expecting much. District 12 has never been a powerhouse, only producing one female Victor in all 47 years; Ashen Brand. She was the only Tribute to ever really give me so much as a chill; she completely lacked emotion. She could perform as brutally as needed to survive without batting an eye, taking a rest, or even losing her breath, winning the 19th Hunger Games within four days; still a record, especially at the age of fourteen. This male Tribute reminded me of her; he possessed the wicked ability to kill. I watched, entranced at his bare-handed tearing into one of our more durable dummies.

Lastly, Keishi Tayne, a strange name from District 12, marched straight towards the survival stations, shoulders dropping as she failed miserably. She glumly went from table to table, looking towards us for approval after every slight hit. The poor dear.

I scanned over my notes, humming a tune to myself as I went over every Tribute's strength, although taking extra care to pinpoint each weakness; that's where the fun was really at. It was all about entertainment, a good show. And this year, I had my work cut out for me.


	11. Training Scores

**Read the previous chapter before reading this if you have not already!**

**District 1; Linus Santoro**

Phoenix flipped her long hair over her should as I sat down next to her; it was hard to tell whether this was an action to belittle or impress me. Either way, I scoffed and scooted away. She was a perfect example of why District 1 has the stereotype it does; brainless, vain brutes. I didn't want much to do with my mindless escort either, although I felt much more pity than disgust towards her. The only person I could stand to talk to here was my mentor, Pewter Strait, the latest winner of the Games two years ago. He was a couple years younger than me still, but he wasn't one of those bloodthirsty show-boats. Just a simple kid with bad luck. Which I suppose didn't last for long, considering he's the youngest Victor to date. I barely heard him pull up a seat next to me; he didn't talk much, which might be why I like him so much. But when he did speak, he never did it just to do it. It was very well-thought out, as regal and prepared as any of President Snow's speeches. People with substance like this were hard to come by, which is why I spent most of my days hanging out with a twelve year old. The television switched on suddenly, the upbeat music kicking up much louder than necessary. Being District 1's male, my picture blinked up first. A terrible picture, might I add. My hair was sticking up in front and one eye looked slightly crooked. I could have laughed at that alone, but when the solid 9 flashed underneath, it was all I could do not to pick Pewter up and spin him around in circles, dancing all the way. I was still smiling while Pewter was giving me some congratulatory speech when the 8 came up under Phoenix's photo. She sniffed and shook her hair out like a proud bird ruffling its feathers. I laugh out loud once again at this accurate comparison as she turns to the escort.

"Clearly they don't have an eye for District 1 talent," she sneered. Any other time, I'd come up with some witty come back, like I'd do back home to knock idiots like Brock Mallet off track when they tried jarring at me. But as cruel as it is, if things go as planned, Phoenix Chase won't be living long enough to even figure out any comment I'd have for her.

**Gregory Hendrick; District 2**

My allies from 1 got high scores as expected. Perfect- that's their department. Let them excel with their weapons, using their skills as a crutch. They can intimidate the usual angle of those in the trained alliance, while I'll win over the points with a different approach. A golden 7 appeared underneath my headshot; not bad. Not perfect, but not bad. Averil hardly flinched at her 9; tied for the highest score so far. She knows she's good at what she does, and she is. But I can see the boredom in the audience's eyes every year as the Tributes of 1 and 2 give them nothing but muscles and bloodlust. It's about time wit won.

**Bennett Howard; District 3**

A two. How perfect, how expected, the Gamemakers falling right into my helpless act. Hopefully, this trap will be one of many. My District partner, Floe, gets a 6. The dolt actually slams down her fist and stomps her foot; a pathetic, childish girl she is. I feel no remorse wishing untimely death on those who are as undeserving as she.

**Majestic Finley; District 4**

Shea didn't stop pumping his fist at his 8 even after my 3 appeared on the screen. What did I expect? Andromache sighed and stormed out, muttering something about hopelessness. Mags, the old woman, came over and patted my back, whispering something in my ear I couldn't quite translate. I laid my hand over hers. Her mumbles soothed me anyways.

**Camellia Embury; District 5**

I tried giving Lecktor a hug when his score was revealed to be a 1, but he was sobbing so violently he shook out of my arms. I was just thinking how I always managed to do everything wrong when I caught the 6 beneath my name fading out of the shot. The bright gold still burned behind the screen for a moment before disappearing completely. Now that was something I had done right.

**Lia Withers; District 6**

Just because I'm young, doesn't mean I'm naïve. I know that a twelve year old from a poor District like 6 doesn't stand a chance. Not against all of the 8's and 9's showing up on the screen under photos of stunning Tributes. Burl hadn't yet given me the time of day, not that I care much. He seemed very wrapped up in himself, which is silly, because It doesn't seem like he has much to offer, being in the same boat as me. But our matching 7's proved otherwise. My hope had been restored. I always had been a survivor.

**Barka Blaine; District 7**

My excessive hacking away with those axes during training worked exactly as planned; the boy from 4 approached me halfway into day two, asking me to join in his alliance of 1 and 2. I'd rather do anything else, but I had to think a few steps further ahead than usual, and accepted as with as much gratitude as I could muster, which wasn't much. But with my spot in the Games secured and my training score of 8, I was one step closer to making it home.

**Tim Hart; District 8**

So my score matched angel-face from 4 and Tough-Guy from 7. These old Capitol hags fell over me more than they did back home. I gotta say, with District 4's pretty-boy I didn't expect to be the one to play the good-looks card. And maybe I'm not. I should keep up the angel I have going on; only the thing is, it's not an angle. It's nice to be myself, not throwing on a suave flirt act to get what I want. Maybe that should've been my goal all along. I hold my sweet District partner's hand as she chokes up over her score. I hope mom's proud.

**Artemis Traymon; District 9**

I was humiliated. I had done so well at disguising the voices, keeping them to a dull roar at least for the time being. But everyone saw be being drug from the Training center, arguing with myself, biting at my wrists that were pinned above my head. Everyone knows I'm crazy. You'd think they would offer some help now that I'm here in the Capitol, so that I don't go mad in the arena and start burning things and cannibalizing. But when my score pops up, I realize, that's exactly what they want.

**Kyla Montay; District 10**

A 4. Danny received a Training score of 6 and was killed hours into the Games. What did this mean for me?

**Lila Carter; District 11**

I tried not to let myself appear happy. Emotions were weakness. Here especially. But my smile was hard to pin down.

**Keishi Tayne; District 12**

Malachi laughed when his 7 showed up. Not a happy laugh, a malicious one. He was from the Community Home, and it broke him. He used to pick on the little kids and snap bird's necks for fun. He was always slammed around by the older children in the Home, smacked and taunted by the cruel grown-ups that over-saw the orphans. I had always felt sorry for him. But what harm would he cause in the arena? Even to me?

**TRAINING SCORES:**

Linus Santoro:** 9**

Phoenix Chase:** 8**

Gregory Hendrick:** 7**

Averil Alderdine:** 9**

Bennett Howard: **2**

Floe Quince: **6**

Shea Gondor: **8**

Majestic Finley: **3**

Lecktor Thom: **1**

Camellia Embury: **6**

Lia Withers: **7**

Burl Lichten: **7**

Tim Hart: **8**

Marley Deerlard: **5**

Artemis Traymon: **9**

Cedar Larkson: **6**

Thorne Marks: **7**

Kyla Montay: **4**

Lila Carter: **10**

Arden Wade: **3**

Malachi Pike: **7**

Keishi Tayne: **2**


	12. Interviews: Part I

I've decided to do the Interviews through the eyes of the Tributes in 3 different parts, since I don't think I've given you guys much to work with from them. We'll hear plenty more from Dulce Davindrue anyways; I'm considering writing the bloodbath from her POV since there'll be too much going on for one tribute to fully soak in. The arena is set and the Games are outlined- only four more chapters now!

**Phoenix Chase; District 1**

It seems District 1's female Tributes make a bigger fool of themselves every year. Playing on the idea of being a brainless, vain sex-machine with nothing to offer but breasts and hips never gets any of them anywhere but in the dirty thoughts of teenagers across the Capitol. Why would anyone want to sponsor a girlish moron anyways? That's not to say I don't look stunning; my sheer, diamond-flaked dress showing just the right amount of powdered, glittering skin. And not that being beautiful won't get you far in the Games; but there are other ways of showing sex appeal than acting like a spineless dolt. Linus sat next to me, slumping in his seat and looking…bored. Poor kid would be getting nowhere, even if he did have the chops to earn a higher training score than I. I can feel my cheeks flushing, reminded of how weak my 8 looked next to his 9. How could he! What could I have done? I was perfect! I was-

My thought is cut off by Linus nudging my shoulder; a nudge for him being a straight shove for others. I'm about to let him have it, when I realize Caesar Flickerman is waving me up to the blindingly bright stage. My sneer forms into a strained, unconvincing smile under my anger as I turn to flounce onto the regally padded seat prepared in the Tribute's honor. As I sit down, Caesar booms,

"Phoenix Chase! How are you on this lovely night!"

_Charming, charming,_ I remind myself. These people were soon to be my greatest fans.

"I'm great!" I laugh, turning to face the audience, "And how is the Capitol tonight!" The audience roars. Perfect.

"I think that means we're all doing fine!" Caesar chuckles, "So, a Chase!"

I saw this coming.

"What's it like to be the daughter of such an accomplished Victor!"

Over-head on the large screens lining the veranda plays the familiar clip of my father's final moment in his Games. The twist. The jerk. And goodbye District 11. The crowd whoops and I'm glowing with pride.

"I can't imagine living any other way," I begin, "My father is such an amazing man, as you can see from his Victory! But he's also an amazing father. He always gives me every I need, whether it's a tip, or a joke or," I laugh, "A new ring."

_Damn it, Phoenix. You're sounding shallow. No more stupid District 1 broads!_

"So, you received an 8 for your training score! You must have a few tricks up your sleeve for the Games! Care to share any of them?"

Oh, would I ever.

"I refuse to lose," I say, suddenly shifting from polite waif into determined warrior, "I may look beautiful, but I'm not just another pretty face from District 1. I'm Bennet Chase's daughter, for crying out loud! I've been waiting for this moment all of my life, every day was just coming down to this. Back home, everyone loves me, as I'm hoping they do here," cue wink towards the crowd, "No matter how vicious I am. Which is very, I can assure you that. Nothing has ever stood in my way." I wrap up my spiel with a shake of my hair and the audience thunders with applause.

"Certainly a product of a Victor!" Caesar claps his hands with delight. "But you can't do it all on your own; let's hear about your allies this year!"

My allies? Isn't this MY interview? About ME?

"Oh, I but I can do it on my own. Sure, Linus, Averil and Greg from District 2, Shea from 4, even Barka, the big guy from 7 will be my crutches. But I'll come on top over all of them. Watch me," I can feel the eyes of my allies boring holes into my back. They needed to hear the truth eventually.

"Well, we expect great things from you in the Arena, Miss Chase!" Caesar chortles. I pat his knee and wave to the audience and they trill in approval. Not bad.

**Linus Santoro; District 1**

Phoenix didn't do a very good job of avoiding the typical District 1 girl stereotype. In fact, she seemed even more ignorant than the usual. Her cocky angle didn't come off as fierce, just vain and honestly, bitchy. Why do Tributes always feel the need to impress these people with angles and ploys? I don't want a big show, I just want to get in and get out, and never have to deal with this again! I don't care if the Capitol thinks I'm tough or bloodthirsty or sexy or anything else I'd seen before. I'd be perfectly happy sitting up there ignoring every word. But that was a no-no; even Pewter advised me to do otherwise. After making several attempts to pull the charmer out of me, it was clear I'm hopeless in that department. I have about as much tact as a toilet seat. I would try and pretend I was talking to Alice or Pewter or one of the occasional people I liked enough to lighten up around. But I'd never been much of an actor. If I can pull this off, maybe I could pick that up as a hobby. Me hamming it up on a big screen in the Capitol, now that'd be a sight to see!

"And now, District 1's Linus Santoro!" Caesar called. Phoenix veers straight into me to try and set me off course and maybe emphasize her "dominance", but she clearly under estimated my kindness and overestimated her strength as she bounces straight off of my chest, stumbling backwards with the force and tripping straight onto her backside. The audience howls with laughter; even Caesar Flickerman struggles to hold his composure. I can't resist a chuckle myself as I tiptoe around her still fuming on the floor, the crowd roaring even louder at my passing up the opportunity to boost her up. I feel a little cruel, messing with her angle, but then I remember who she is and any remorse quickly flits away.

I bound up onto the stage and settle myself into the cozy seat. Okay, this is it. Not quiet, not reserved, not aloof. Pretend its Alice. But as I cock my head upwards to face Caesar, I can't help but burst into laughter at the image of his over-enthusiastic, aged face on my sister's tiny frame, with a little gold dress on to match his color-scheme for this year's Games. Maybe even with his hair in little pigtails. Caesar and looks amused by my sudden snickers. I guess I'm going to be a light-hearted Linus.

"So, Linus, I see you've already made quite an impact here! What do you think of the Games so far?"

"They're…" I search my brain for a safe word, "Fun. I've been prepping for this for a while now." Not bad, Linus, not bad.

"Ah, certainly!" he replies, "You volunteered, is that correct? What made you want to try for a shot at being Victor?"

This'll be easy. It'll win the Capitol over for sure, and it's not even a lie.

"Well, I had been planning to volunteer when I turned 18, because, well, it's worth the shot. But this year, there's this boy who wanted to volunteer. He's a year older than me. A real jackass," more cackling from the crowd, "And I over-heard him just before the Reaping talking about the awful things he was going to do in the Arena. Torture everyone he ran into, even the any little twelve-year olds," I glance over at Lia Withers, the tiny girl from 6, imagining Brock tearing her little pink face to shreds. Stopping him from volunteering was originally just for my own sanity and to spite him, really, but now that I see the reality it could have become, I'm genuinely happy I stepped up. "It was just awful. I couldn't see this happen, so I figured why not, it's not like I have anything to lose!"

A clip from the Reaping of Brock screaming curses while stomping his fists on the ground plays on the big screens overhead until it finishes with him being subdued by Peacekeepers. What a goon.

"Sounds like we have a sweetheart here, guys!" the audience cheers at Caesar's comment, "So, a nice guy like you must have a girl at home, huh?"

"What?" I think out loud, "No!" the absurd thought makes me chuckle once again. "I've never been into the ladies," I decide omit in the fact I'm not really "into" people in general. Except for my sister, of course, which I'm sure will pull the Panem even further in my favor. "Unless you count Alice," I add.

"Alice, huh? Is she _just _a friend?" he smirks. Ugh.

"Yes, I'd certainly hope so. Considering she's my little sister."

"Oh, well of course! A little sister. Tell us more!"

"Well, she's one of the only people I really like back home. District 1 isn't as great as you guys think it is. Everyone's either like the brute whose place I took or like Phoenix over there," I gesture towards her. She wants to insult her alliance; I can give it right back. "But Alice is smart. Very mature for her age, but very pure too. Not tainted by the arrogance of 1. I spend most of my time with her." And my buzzer sounds.

"Maybe we can look forward to seeing her in the Games as well in a few years!"

_Over your dead body, Caesar._

**Averil Alerderline; District 2**

Training was easy. Impressing the Gamemakers was easy. Even the Games themselves shouldn't be hard. But winning over the audience, no. Not my forte. But Linus Santoro hadn't said more than a few words to me; or anyone else, as far as I knew since arriving here, and he just made everyone in Panem want to bring him home and kiss him on the freaking cheek. Maybe it wasn't THAT difficult.

"Averil Alerderline!" Caesar calls. The lump in my throat confirms that yes, it is.

"Averil, my dear! How are you enjoying the stunning Capitol?"

"Good," I start, scrambling for something else to say, but nothing comes. Caesar nods towards me expectantly, waiting for a finish, but my mind is blank. Okay, so much for a conniving angle. Maybe I could try mysterious, alluring; when really I'm just clueless.

"So, you're in a pretty strong alliance," Caesar continues, trying to get the ball rolling again, "What do you think of your associates!"

_Come on, think, Averil, think!_

"Oh, we have plenty of tricks up our sleeves," I smirk, hoping my front isn't as see-through as I feel it is. "Phoenix is…" _Snotty. Conceited. Cruel. _"Devious. Not to mention determined," _Okay, keep going,_ "Linus is charming," I don't exactly know that, nor had he done anything to make me think so. But he seems like a nice guy, plus he knocked Phoenix straight onto her back, so I decide to help him with his angle.

"Very nice guy. But don't under estimate him! Gregory, my District partner, is a genius. So funny and witty!" also not true. He likes to think he is, but he's really just boastful and obnoxious. But, harmless.

"Shea just… wow. I mean look at him, he's gorgeous!" the crowd screams in agreement.

"And so who are you in the group?" Caesar presses. Oh man.

"You'll just have to wait and find out," I wink. _YES!_

"Oh boy! What makes you think you're set to win the Games?"

Funny story, actually. "Well, I live in the Community Home in District 2. My parents left me when I was very young," all of Panem lets out a collective sigh, "I had always been very bitter about it. It's hard growing up without a real family, just lost in a sea of faces just like yours," thankfully I picked up reading the forbidden old books of the ladies in the Home. My eloquent speech is definitely coming in handy here.

"Well one day, I smarted off in class for the last time. My teacher snapped and told me 'It's no wonder your parents left you; you're just as horrible as they were!' I was only 8 years old, and I punched that teacher right in the face. A Peacekeeper had to take me into custody, and I wasn't allowed back in school for a month!" the audience in a sea of noises, some laughing some gasping. This actually isn't even a lie. It'll be hard to go back to being "mysterious" after all of Panem knows it now.

"And that's when I realized how great a fighter I was," I finish. I'm careful not to say a thing about training, not only because I'm trying to hold up being obscure, and because as open as we are about it back home, it's technically illegal. The buzzer rings in my ears.

"Well, we'll just have to see for ourselves then!" Caesar finishes. The audience isn't clapping as loud as they did for Linus and Phoenix. Of course; can I ever do ANYTHING right?

**Gregory Hendrick; District 2**

"District 2's Gregory Hendrick!"

Finally. My time to shine.

The audience's applause is apprehensive, not knowing what to expect. The male Tribute last year could hardly finish a sentence without grunting. But this is my thing; I'm a people person. I jump onto the stage and hop into my seat, making sure to wave at camera that projects my image over the Circle.

"How are you tonight, Caesar?" I say, patting giving him a pat on the back.

"Well, aren't you a charmer! I'm just fine, and how are you?"

"Fantastic! How could you be anything else here? And I love the gold this year. Brings out your eyes," laughter booms out around me.

"Why thank you, sir, but I'd say violet is more my shade. Possibly a light mauve," Caesar chuckles. He always was good at playing up the Tribute's best attributes.

"Mauve, definitely. I'm a green man myself." More laughs. Too easy.

"What about in the Arena? Are you looking for lots of green there? A forest, maybe?"

"Well, green might be nice. But hopefully we'll have more red, if you catch my drift!"

"Oh, so we have a killer on our hands!"

Winning over the Capitol and my fellow Tributes at the same time is not an easy task. I mull over a response for a moment, but then I'm right back on track.

I clutch at my heart, faking exasperation.

"Caesar, I'm appalled! I was just hoping for some nice fall weather; red trees!"

The crowd is cracking up now; and that wasn't even a good joke. But as long as I keep them laughing, I'm set.

"Well then, aren't you a different species than our normal District 2 Tributes!" Caesar booms in response.

"I certainly like to think so; I can hold a conversation, for one; but that's not to say I'm a weakling," I turn on my best smile, give my blonde hair a little shake and flex my muscles, getting several whoops from the crowd, "I mean, look at me!"

Caesar leans over to grip my arms, and we spend a little bit taking turns to feel each other's muscles, causing uproar in the crowd. I swear I can hear my best friend, Anthony, snickering from all the way back home. He was a quiet one; lots of people weren't sure why we hung out. But we never failed to make each other laugh. I'm about to bring him up when suddenly the buzzer rings, lost in a sea of applause.

**Floe Quince; District 3**

Thankfully the Interviews were a lot different than the Chariots; my tight, blue leather dress makes me look unbelievably un-3-ish. The big, thick curls are here to stay, though. My escort, who said I was on the verge of starting a new trend, even tried to recreate the mess. She failed miserably. I plan on stealing the District 1 girl's aloof thunder; just because you're a cocky blonde member of the trained pack doesn't mean you're destined for a life of fame and fortune. They obviously have terrible judgment anyways, turning me down as an ally. I'll show them, though. Not all people from the poor Districts are morons like the rest. And Training Scores aren't always accurate- I mean my 6 wasn't very fitting, right?

I don't even realize I'm saying all of this out loud to Caesar Flickerman on stage for all of Panem to see. So what if I'm babbling? The people here are probably hanging onto my every word; finally someone who talks their talk!

"Sounds like you are confident! What makes you think your score is inaccurate? And what sets you apart from your fellow District 3 citizens?"

"Where do I begin?" I start, "Well first of all, the largest portion of our District, and where most of our Tributes are from, is the dirty, stinking laboratories and chunky buildings used for the useless tech-heads to make useless attempts at goodness knows what. I mean, do any of you really bother with anything from 3? Science, math, it all runs together for people like us," I wink at the audience, who laughs awkwardly in return. Intimidated, I'm sure.

"But I clearly was not raised there. I was raised in the town, where the _normal_ people live. Not everyone from District 3 is like Nuts and Volts," I say, making an obvious jab at District 3's most prominent Victors, my mentors, Beetee and some freak Wiress. "My parents own a clothing store, so I've always been exposed to the real important things in life, not slaving away over some gadget. I was almost raised like the kids are here!"

"And how will that give you the edge needed to win the Games?" Caesar questions.

"Well, I used to mess around with the knives in my kitchen all the time; I'm incredibly talented, if I do say so myself," I scoff, "Not to mention the fact I don't have the typical ashy skin and sullen eyes; I mean, I look beautiful tonight, don't I? I won't be scraping to get by like the other saps here; I'll be pulling sponsors and stabbing Tributes, and I will make it home!"

Caesar chuckles and wishes me luck as the buzzer rings, practically concealing the approval from the audience. I'm taken aback; clearly the people from the Capitol weren't as intuitive as I thought!

**Bennett Howard; District 3**

Maybe the residents of the Capitol aren't as dim as I thought, refusing to buy into my District mate's senseless ploy. No matter; they are still far beneath my level of intelligence, and with my unimpressive appearance and training score, they are putty in my hands. I confided my plans in my mentor, Beetee, a wildly brilliant man, and he agreed whole-heartedly with my feinting inadequacy. Even the little depth I elaborated on my plans caused him to tap his finger against his temple thoughtfully, resulting in praise and several ideas for perfecting these mechanisms and strategies. He himself won his Games by creating a fabulous electrical snare, taking out several opponents at once. However, he seemed far too merciful, dare I say humane to reveal some of my more nefarious traps to. As inventive as he is, it was by pure luck that he was crowned Victor; he lacks edge, and quite frankly, a backbone. Before I know it, I'm sitting cross-legged in a finely crafted chair next to Caesar Flickerman himself.

After the initial small-talk, with very little sign of attentiveness on my part, he dives right in to barreling out the questions in his obnoxious tone. I can hardly hide my disgust at his visibly altered golden lips.

"What do you think of you District partner, eh? She seems like a fighter!"

I cannot hide my discontent here.

"More along the lines of oblivious," I state matter-of-factly, refusing to raise my voice from its monotone pitch.

"Well! Nothing like some friendly District competition!" he chortles.

"Oh, friendliness has no part in this. Between myself and Floe or any of these naïve imbeciles transfixed upon victory. Thinking they'll glide through the weeks to come un-maimed, ascending into fame and fortune. Don't they realize that at least 23 others share this goal, not to mention those with the same dominant mindsets? How many of us ensured a safe arrival back home to our loved ones? And how many of us will fulfill our promise? Not to be, as my charming counterpart put it, a 'useless tech-head', but I believe that is a 24:1 ratio. This means, if anyone took the time to configure this, that each Tribute has approximately a four percent chance of survival. I'm sure it seems like much more of a challenge when posed in this fashion to some of our more egotistical Tributes. However, it is much simpler. Being handsome or domineering or knowing your way around a sword means nothing; you're still just a number. A factor of chance or, more accurately put in these circumstances, a piece in a game." I finish with a slight cough, ducking my head as if I fear I've said too much, still trying to hold onto the trembling coward act.

"Well then," Caesar starts with caution, obviously at a loss for words- who would have ever imagined the day? "What puts you ahead in winning the Games, then?"

"You clearly missed the point of my tangent," I curtly remark. He looks at me with interest, waiting for me to proceed. I cease wasting any more words on this bunch, or reveal too much of my ploy to anyone who could possibly have the aptitude to understand my points.

The buzzer rings, and the audience claps, more out of required respect than actual willingness. The boy from District 4 eyes me with bewilderment; oh, how crushed he will be to realize his assumed years of training will be to no avail; the same goes for anyone who takes the time to drill themselves for that matter. No amount of weight lifting or spear technique can change what is mathematical fact. And though I'm aware of the 4% chance which stands for each of us, I can't help but feel myself steadily rising to advantage.

**Majestic Finley; District 4**

Pity votes. That's what Andromache told me to go for. That wouldn't be too much of a challenge. I couldn't exactly pull in sponsors with ferocity like the beautiful girl from District 1; but I'm also sure she, with all of her diamonds and Victor father, couldn't whip up a story like mine. Although I still don't know how far that will get me, especially with Shea beside me already warming up the audience with his winks and the hauntingly intriguing Bennett Howard finishing up on making his barely understandable case. At least I'll have fun doing this. The people I've met so far here are sweethearts; poor, ignorant dears. They hardly realize what they're doing to us in the Districts. It makes you feel kind of sad for them; I'd rather be the one to suffer over being the cause for it. Just when I think my knocking knees and light head couldn't get any worse, a sharp light glares off of my scaled dress as Caesar Flickerman calls me out onto the stage.

People are calling my name, and I'm surprised at how good it feels to be in the spotlight. I feel my grin spreading on my face as I wave in all directions. I flounce into my seat as Caesar gives me a kiss on the cheek, causing me to giggle and blush.

"Majestic Finley! District 4's resident mermaid! You made quite the splash at the Opening Ceremonies!"

I laugh and his pun and feel my cheeks growing hot again. Everyone is fixated on me; in fact the girl from District 9 is staring at me so intensely I could puke. I stumble for words, but they jumble out into another round of the giggles. The audience follows my example, with a few "awws" thrown in. Caesar tries to pull me to my feet again while I tuck my lips together to hold in anything else that tries bubbling out.

"Don't be shy! A pretty face like you shouldn't have anything to hide!"

"Well thank you Caesar, you're not so bad yourself!" I chirp while Caesar claps his hands to his face in mock surprise.

"She flatters an old man!" he gasps, "Surely you have someone better than me back home!"

And actually, I do. I glance down and pull out the pendant tucked into the front of my dress. I can feel the now familiar sense of loss tugging in my chest as I explain its meaning.

"Back home, I don't have a lot of friends. But I have one that means the world to me. The most wonderful, handsome, charming boy in all of Panem. His name is Walter; we'd been friends since we were kids. And before I left for the Capitol, he finally told me his true feelings. See this little sideways 8? It means infinity. Meaning that even if I die in this arena, his love for me will last forever," I drop my head and stare at the beautiful necklace for a moment before hiding it back away by my heart. I should have always known we'd be together, and now it's too late.

The audience shines all around me as their eyes mist, and Caesar's chin is softening in that familiar look of condolence. I want to get off this topic, but I must keep going.

"Well, that's a real piece of bad luck. However, _win_," he says, pressing in the impossible word, "and you can return."

"Well, that'd be the dream!" I say softly. I try to avoid stating the fact I refuse to harm anyone or anything, because although I'd love to assure the other Tributes that they have one less enemy, it'd probably be the fastest way to lose sponsors, which are my only real hope right now.

"Well, I think it's safe to say we're all rooting for you, Majestic. Stunning name, might I add; where does one get such a title in the fishing District?"

"It's a lovely story, actually. For my dad's sixteenth birthday, he received a small fishing boat, the usual coming-of-age gift in Four. It was a precious little sailboat, and he was so proud of it; and he named it Majestic. So the first day he took it out, he noticed a large splash out in the distance. So he turned the wheel and crept closer, until he noticed the cause of the splash had arms! He immediately speed closer, until he pulled out a beautiful woman with long brown hair, and immediately was swept away just as she had been in the riptide he rescued her from. That woman eventually became my mother, and when I was born, they named me after the reason they were together today. Majestic," the audience swoons just as I did when I had first heard the story.

"Incredible! Your parents seem like fine people!"

"Oh, they are! They mean so much to me and they help me out with…" I drift off, preparing for the big moment.

"Please, continue!" Caesar presses.

"Well, a year or so ago, I found out I have a disease. One that I won't last long with if I don't get proper medicine."

"Oh my," the benevolence in his eyes looks genuine, "Why don't you get the needed help?"

I feel the rare anger boiling in my chest, and I have to resist squealing out that it's all him and his people's fault, all of the Capitol! But I keep it down, I refuse to let these people knock me around.

"Well, we aren't exactly the richest family in District Four. The medicine needed to treat something like cancer," the crowd gasps at the word, "is astronomical. But maybe, just maybe, if can I win, I can get help. I can live a full and happy life."

The buzzer sounds as the audience remains silent, with a few resounding sniffles. Suddenly, they burst into wild applause as I give one last wave and head back to my seat. I pull out my necklace once more, and imagine that I'm anywhere but here.

**Shea Gondor; District 4**

The screeches and cheers that shake the City Circle when I'm called up to the stage tell me I have my work cut out for me. I can feel my luck returning; my high training score, the buzz around me in the Capitol, and Mags ended up being a better mentor than expected. She won her Games by playing the beauty card too, if you can imagine. She also told me that that is my key asset; and sadly, to keep this up, I have to keep Carmel and the baby a secret. I have to keep up the tough-guy "Career" façade. And although I'd love to really love to stick it to these people, it'll be worth getting home to my new little family. I give my wavy hair a tousle and give Caesar a firm handshake before throwing another signature Shea wink at the camera. To me, it's becoming over-kill, but Mags insisted Panem couldn't possibly get enough. My only competition here now is the dirty looking jerk from 8, the one who even got Phoenix to giggle and blush like an actual girl when he wrapped his arms around her to assist her in a knife-throwing technique. I know for a fact she can chuck a blade a thousand different ways in her sleep, which just makes him even worse. However, the kid is an obvious dolt. I can make this crowd melt in my hands.

"So, Shea Gondor! Certainly you're aware of the, uh, power you're already having over the Capitol!" Caesar guffaws.

As if right on cue, from somewhere behind me there's a screech of "I LOVE YOU SHEA!" and the rest of the crowd laughs and whistles with agreement.

"Well, it certainly is an honor. I don't think I can compare to some of the lovely ladies here in the Capitol, though!" I lull over every word, buttering the Capitolites up for everything its worth. Not that it's needed; they hoot once again. It's too easy.

"Oh, but you aren't all good looks, I see! A training score of 8! Care to tell us any of your secrets?"

I raise my index finger and press it to my mouth, letting my bottom lip drag along its side, which I can see the cameras have taken focus on.

"My lips are sealed," I allure, "Although I can assure you all will be impressed in the Arena!"

"Well, Shea, may I ask why you haven't volunteered in the past? Surely with your skill and charming good looks you are confident you could make it!"

"Well, actually, I had been planning on volunteering all along; it was a stroke of good luck I was reaped this year!" Some cues the clip of me shouting 'About time!' after my name is called on the big screens, "But it seemed like someone either always beat me to the chance or, like last year, a poor little thirteen year old was reaped for the girls. And I could never bring myself to have to kill her!"

A pretty good answer. It says I'm noble, a sweet hearted gentleman, but I'd also have no problem killing anyone, even my District partner; unless, of course, she's defenseless. I try to push Majestic out of my mind. The crowd loved her, though. So sweet and sensitive and…

"Well I hope I'm good with the little ones. Because as much as I hate to disappoint the beautiful women here, I have a baby waiting on me back home."

I don't mean to slip this out. Mags is surely going to whack me in the head for this later. But it just seemed right to let the Capitol know I have a real reason to get home.

"Oh," Caesar replies, clearly shuffling through his mind for the right thing to say. Which is an impressive feat, I find, knocking the words out of Caesar Flickerman's mouth.

"Yeah. My girlfriend, Carmel, absolutely the most kind, stunning, warm-hearted person in the world," I play up my love a little further than reality, but it's clearly working on the crowd, the way the audience sighs. Not that Carmel isn't a great person; I'd have no problem starting up a little family with her. But I need to really work with the audience now.

"Before I left on the train, she told me she was pregnant. And now, I have even more of a case for winning the Games. Not only will I have the honor, the pride, but also get to hold my child and soon-to-be wife in my arms."

The audience falls silent. Suddenly, starting up with a low buzz, the crowd begins to roar with applause, and they only stop clapping when I blow them a kiss that hundreds of hands reach forward to catch. So it worked in my favor after all. I'm no longer just the pretty-boy; I have the substance Andromache insisted I lack. I suppose I don't have the hearts of thousands of girls and women, throwing out wads of cash to ensure my safe return and possibly a chance at romance now that I dropped that bombshell, but I'll fare just fine. District 8 can have that satisfaction now, if he wants. He won't be making it home anyways.


	13. Interviews: Part II

**Camellia Embury; District 5**

I faintly hear Caesar shout something with a flourish, but I'm only pulled out of my daydream by a tap on my leg. Blinking and shaking my head, I find I'm looking straight at Majestic, the sweet girl from 4. She nudges her head towards the glowing stage, with Caesar Flickerman glittering gold in the center. I'm on. As I stand up, I mouth a thank you to Majestic and try to get my knees to stop knocking, but it's to no avail. When I catch myself on camera, I smile, and to my relief, I look fairly confident. I'm teetering in my golden heels, and as I clamber up the short stairs I feel one catching and I have to flail my arms to keep my balance. The Capitol must think I'm a goof already! Finally, I nestle safely in the seat next to the famed interviewer.

"Well, hello there Camellia! I thought I was going to have to come save you there for a minute!"

Okay. This is it. Play up the goofy underdog, like my mentor suggested. Easy. I look directly beyond Caesar at the colorful, colossal crowd. Maybe not. I open my mouth to respond, but a shower of giggles comes out instead. I'm not sure why, but no matter how disgusting the Games are, even back home Caesar Flickerman always had a direct line to my funny bone. Even last year, when I knew the shy boy Tribute fairly well, I couldn't help but laugh through his entire, painfully awkward interview. The man gets me!

"Caesar, I'm going to have to warn you," I begin, "I don't think I can hold in my laughter around you!"

Caesar clasps his hand over his heart, bluffing a hurt look.

"Oh no, not like that," I say, trying to muffle my giggles, "You look lovely. The gold is a nice touch. It's just…" I look back into the crowd and finish up with my previous thought, "The man gets me!"

It's Caesar's turn to laugh now, although the way his chin pushes back and his eyes cross slightly when he laughs makes me howl even louder. I hear the audience joining in. This isn't so hard after all!

"Well Camellia, I applaud your sense of humor! What other redeeming qualities do you have that can help you through the Games?"

I spoke too soon.

"Well, I got a training score of six; which I don't think is too bad,"

"Ahh, yes! A six! Care to share how you achieved such a fine score?"

"Well, I can tell you I didn't earn it in…" I recall the look on the Head Gamemakers face when I burst out onto the floor, "A traditional way!"

"I'm sure you didn't! You don't seem like a girl for traditions!" Caesar gives me a friendly nudge, and I nudge him right back, which escalates into a full-blown mock fight. After Caesar gives me a soft, exaggerated blow to the cheek, I stand up to give him a final punch under the chin, which he responds to perfectly by stumbling out of his seat, begging for mercy on the ground, until I'm nearly dying with laughter. Caesar stands up; brushing off his twinkling blue suit, sitting down in a hoity-toity fashion that expresses the battle we just had was nothing out of the ordinary. The people in the stands are absolutely shrieking, and even my sides are starting to ache.

"Well, Miss Embury, fight like that in the Arena and there's no way you'll lose!" he winks at me.

"I'll see what I can do!" I chuckle as the buzzer rings. Caesar even makes an effort to help me down the stairs to ensure I don't fall, and the audience is going wild. The echoing sounds of consent restore my determination. I will have a chance.

**Lia Withers; District 6**

The poor boy from 5 is nearly drenching the stage, his sobs barely blocking out the sound of his babbling. I can't help but feel like his bell went off a bit faster than the others, probably on purpose. Which is not good for me. I can't even properly talk to people my own age, let alone the entire country! My mentor told me to be the helpless sweetheart, that people would want to sponsor me out of pity. But I don't think the Capitol is the most merciful bunch. Why would they pay their precious money just to boost a little girl's confidence? Besides, I'd been handling things on my own since birth, why should I stop now?

When Caesar calls me on stage, he tries to kiss my cheek, which I have no idea how to react to. When the last time someone did that to me? The first thing I notice is Caesar's attempt to baby-talk to me, which I find incredibly annoying. Maybe he'll stop when he realizes I haven't been a little kid for some time.

"Hello sweetheart," he coos.

"You don't have to talk to me like that," I start cautiously; "I'm not a child."

"Well, I wouldn't dream of thinking so," he says, barely phased by my undeniably rude comment, "It seems like the odds are in your favor incredibly more so than some of our youngest past Tributes. Can you tell us why that is?"

Actually, I can't. I want to tell them everything so they know I have more of a chance than they think. But, even though the Capitol is well aware of District 6's somewhat underground morphling production, my parents could be shot dead on the spot for dipping into their supply.

"Well, I was raised in the Community Home, so I had to fend for myself a lot growing up," this is a blatant lie, but from the past Games I remember that with the last eight or so Tributes, they began interviewing friends and family from home. If they went to talk to my parents and saw the state they're in, that would also be grounds for their execution. Better safe than sorry.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. But it seems like it's worked out in your favor, you wowed the Gamemakers enough to get a score of 7! That's higher than many of your older competitors. How do you plan on using this to survive the Games?"

"Well, not many of the Tributes have had to be self-reliant all of these years. I basically grew up on the streets, which can be just as tough as The Hunger Games sometimes. So if I survived one, I could survive the other."

"What about your District partner, Burl? He's twelve years old as well, do you think he was the benefits you do?"

"I know for a fact he does," I try letting on that we have some sort of survival plan going on, even though we haven't even said two words to each other in our entire lives. I might as well help the kid have a fighting chance too; although I think he has his own.

"Well, if you win, you'll be invited back to the Capitol every year. What's your favorite thing about being here so far?"

My favorite thing would probably be the buzzer if it would ring right about now. Unfortunately, I still have plenty of time, and Caesar and the rest of Panem is waiting to hear my answer.

"I don't have to dig through anyone's garbage to get some decent food." I finish curtly, with what I feel is too much venom behind it to take as a joke. However, the crowd laughs anyways, and the buzzer taunts me by going off just a moment later. By the way the crowd claps; I think they know I'm not as innocent as I seem.

**Burl Lichten; District 6**

Looking out into the audience, I see a field of sparkly pinks, blues, and greens. Could these idiots be asking for any more attention? Their fat, multi-colored arms jiggle when they clap hysterically for all the bloodthirsty morons and stupid sob stories as if they actually care about anything else but watching them bleed. When that Caesar guy calls my name, I refuse to act any differently, like I'm supposed to impress these bozos. I won't play by anyone's rules but my own.

"District Six's Burl Lichten!"

I swear if he tries down talking me like he did to Lia he'll be in for it. And I don't even know what I'll do if he tries feeling me up like he did that prick from 2.

"Welcome, little Burl!"

"Little?" I sneer with disgust.

"Well, you are one of the youngest Tributes in these Games!"

"That means nothing."

"Certainly not! You chilled the audience during the Chariots and you received a fairly high training score of 7. Care to share how you did so?" he attempts to banter.

"Let's just say I have my methods. I'm not a little pussy like everyone seems to think."

The crowd gasps at my colorful language, as if their perfectly altered ears had never heard a negative word in their pathetic lives.

"If anyone thought that before, they certainly aren't now! But you have to have a soft side. Any ladies back home?"

"Girls," scoff and roll my eyes as far back as they'll go. Doesn't this guy have anything better to do?

"Love is a weakness."

"What about in your family?" he tries, "Surely-"

"Dead." I cut him off.

"Well then, life must have been hard for you. Does this make you any more determined to get home?"

"I grew up in the freaking Home. I had to steal and fight to live every day. My dad didn't win the damn Hunger Games and my face doesn't look like an angel spit on it," overhead on the cam the District 4 boy is glaring daggers in my direction, and it takes everything in me not to laugh in his scrunched up face. "I had to work to live. It didn't just come to me like some of these idiots. I'm the only one here who really deserves to win."

"Well, it sounds like you're sure of yourself!"

"Completely."

"And how do you plan on winning the Games?"

"Dirtily," I grimace into the camera lens once again. That stupid siren goes off again, and it's starting to give me a real headache. Bennett Howard, the boy from 3 gives me a nod. That kid has some tricks up his sleeve, and I plan on helping him out. I slump back into my seat. Might as well catch on my sleep throughout the rest of these train wrecks.

**Joyce Anne Irving; District 7**

As degrading and cruel as this whole interview thing is, I can't help but think this is actually kind of fun. My hair is braided up beautifully with olive branches, the brat from 1 fell right over, and the bubbly girl from 5 had me cracking up. I didn't even feel nervous; why should I be unsure of myself in front of these Capitol snobs? Finally, Caesar calls my name and I bound onstage.

"Hello, Joyce Anne; and your hair looks lovely, might I say. You're from District 7. How is life back home?"

"Well, life was pretty good. But now I'm in the Hunger Games," I say. I'm supposed to be determined and hardened, which isn't reaching too far for me. It's pretty fun though, actually. It's like putting on a play for the entire country.

"Well, yes you are. And how do you plan on getting through?"

"I'll do anything. Anything at all." I put on my best smirk.

"What are your reasons for getting home? Any family? Friends? And I'm sure a pretty girl like you has a boy waiting back home!"

"My father is dead," I say, trying not to crack or let on too much as to why exactly he's gone, "My mom is strict, but she just wants me to be safe. She thinks I'm a little too wild," hopefully this sounds like I'm a big bad rebel, when really I just like to paint clouds on the gravel and make up stories, "And my brother Monty's overprotective too. But I love him. He taught me a lot about how to swing an axe. As for friends, Gail and Rohan. I'm the tough one of the bunch. And boyfriends, no. I'm too focused for that."

I'm afraid I sound too cocky or that I'm over-doing it, but Cathy, my old mentor gives me a thumbs up from the side.

"Too focused on what, exactly?"

"Everything! I give anything I do my all. And the Games are no exception. I will make it home."

"Well, you know what they say, if you can dream it, you can do it!"

How funny of Caesar to say that. Suddenly, it's like my father's standing over me, hands draped around my shoulders, teaching me how to use my imagination, speaking of all of those faraway places. It's not just a dream anymore; and I can do it!

"My father used to say the same thing. And since then, I've been dreaming of everything, of all of the things outside of District 7, outside of Panem even! And now, with the Games, it's all possible. I can do it. And I will do it."

I'm afraid my rebellious streak shone through a little too brightly there, but the audience's applause picks up. Caesar and I continue to discuss strategies and make small talk, but that all seems so small in comparison to the big scheme of things. I can feel my mother's disapproval already; but I will make it home.

**Barka Blaine; District 7**

The clothes I'm wearing now actually fit, and I'd sure hope they did; they cost more than anything I've ever touched in my life. Not only is the Capitol barbaric enough to send kids to die, they also give them a taste of all the things they have deprived them of throughout their entire lives. My mentor told me just to be myself; apparently the "dark, brooding handsome type" goes pretty far, and that's not something I have to stretch for.

"Barka Blaine of District 7," Caesar rumbles. Show time, I guess.

"Welcome, Barka! How are you enjoying the Capitol so far?"

"It's nice."

Caesar probably could tell what I'd be like just by looking at me. I'm sure he was a whole book of responses for the docile type. I don't care what he says; I just want to get this over with.

"So, rumor has it you've been accepted into the alliance of Districts 1, 2 and 4! That's a tough group to get in with. How did you do it?"

"My training score speaks for itself." I fold my arms over my chest in an aloof, confident way. Thankfully I needed feel like I had to act friendly or brutal. This is just perfect for me.

"Of course it does. And I'm sure you're set on getting home,"

"Yes."

"And who do you have to go home to?"

"My little sister. Azalea," It's a good thing I'm well trained at keeping in all emotions but anger, really, because I tend to get a little soft at her mention, especially now. But I keep up a good front.

"What about your parents?"

"Dead," I say, tapping my foot on the ground. I catch a glimpse of myself on the camera, looking adequately bored.

"Well then, you're all your sister has left. Does this make you any more determined to win?"

I can feel my fists clenching, each knuckle popping in anticipation. My cheeks are flushing red hot, I can feel it. Why would anyone say such a dastardly thing to someone? When the chance is very real that soon, with me gone, she'll have nothing?

"I will win. I will get home," I say, letting out a flush of hot anger with my words.

Someone at this time has the indecency to shout "You're so handsome, Barka!" These horrid people really don't get it, do they? That I have a family back home? That each of us has someone we love and care about? That some of us just want to get _home_? That children are going to die, possibly me included? And they treat us like we're jokes, like we're dolls, like we're inhuman!

The cameras must be picking up the pure fury flashing on my face, which I'm sure the crowd takes as part of the Game, probably falling over themselves to sponsor the angry boy from Seven. And the fact that they have to money to throw around to pay for bets and gifts is even more despicable when the people they are paying so much for have next to nothing waiting for them back home. In fact, I'll probably get more items of worth in the Arena than I'd ever had in my life.

"It seems like you're getting lots of attention from the ladies here! Is there anyone special back home?" What I wouldn't give to smack the stupid grin right off Caesar's face.

"No."

"What's your strategy for in the Arena?" he's just pulling questions out of thin air now.

"You'll have to wait and see."

The buzzer trills on and I stalk on stage without a goodbye. I notice my knuckles have turned white from my grip on the arms of the chair. As if they weren't despicable enough, the way they cheer for me, as if I desperately need their approval, absolutely sickens me. I just want to get this over with.


	14. Interviews: Part III

**Marley Deerlard; District 8**

I'm scared. Which is pathetic, considering the task before me is far easier than the ones I'll be facing in a matter of days. Not even days now; hours. I jump when Caesar calls my name. Mentally scolding myself for this obvious sign of weakness, I skitter onto the stage with what I hope is a look of courage plastered onto my face. After greeting Caesar, I plop down into the soft seat.

"Hello Marley! How are you enjoying the Capitol so far?"

Not a good way to start off the bat. I have to look sweet; it's my only hope. But the Capitol is just so awful I can't possibly go about this kindly.

"Not very much," I sniff, a small smile slipping onto my face. The crowd laughs nervously; surely there have been Tributes to say worse.

"And why ever not?" Caesar gasps.

It's as good a time as any to bring up Hellard, my future fiancé by force. I was going to save it up for the big finish, but I've already messed up any chance of this going smoothly.

"Well, the Capitol is beautiful," I gush, "But there's a lot of people I'm going to miss if I don't come back."

"I'm sure you do. And who are some of those people?"

I glance down at my hands to gather my bearings so I don't burst into tears. My nails have kept their usual purple tone, but they are coated in actual polish, not the sticky fabric dye I'm used to. I wish I could sit like this for the next three minutes, but I have to answer sooner or later.

"Well, I have lots of friends of course that I'd like to see again. My parents, who I couldn't stand to let see me die. My little brother, Lorcan, who I've always had a special bond with," I trail off, leaving room for more.

"That's all? Beautiful girl like you, you must have a special someone back home!"

"Of course I do. Hellard, my fiancé," technically we aren't even dating yet, but I might as well embellish. The crowd lets out sounds that range from shock to excitement. I even hear I few cries of "Oh man!" Puffing out my chest, I continue on.

"He's the sweetest boy you'll ever meet. And if I don't make it back, I don't know what he'll do!" I doubt he'll do much but shrug. He clearly was never too keen on the arranged marriage tradition either.

"Well, I can guarantee you the most spectacular wedding Panem has ever seen; Capitol style! But first, you must win these Games. How do you plan on doing so?"

"Well, I'm very fast and sneaky. And I can do a little bit of everything," I stammer. I wouldn't even say these meager strengths are true. I'm not good at much. My heart swells with the stress of it all, the fear that in a few days I will be dead. But most of all, it aches with longing. Longing to just be home, snuggled up to Lorcan on the mattress, worn down to just the right amount of comfort.

Caesar snaps me out of my wallowing; reminding me it's not over yet. I still have a chance, and I won't go down without a good fight.

"Do you plan on having anyone to help you on your adventure?"

The anxiety of this reminder ties a knot in my already queasy stomach; I don't. The girls from 4 and 5 seem kind, but I never made anything official. Tim, my District partner, is a sweetheart. He's been very friendly and good at putting me at ease; but no matter how nice he seems, he's running on determination. He won't want a mess like me following him around.

"No I don't." I say with surprising confidence. "I think I'm better off working alone."

"Well I certainly hope that's true," Caesar says before kissing my hand. The buzzer rings, and I let out the breath I had held in for most of the interview. The crowd claps, at least; which is much more than I can say for District 3. But the Capitol's approval doesn't mean much to me; I still won't go out with ease.

**Tim Hart; District 8**

I'm called up as soon as Marley steps down. I feel awful; she sort of crashed and burned up there. As she walks past me, a nervous smile covering up the tears welling in her brown eyes, and I plant a kiss on her cheek that leaves the audience whooping and hollering. I didn't mean it sexually in any way; just as a friendly sign of reassurance; but I have a feeling the Capitol is going to twist anything I say or do that way. Not that I have a problem with this; it's not like I'm not used to using my appearance to get what I want. If that's what I have to do, so be it. But if I die, I want to leave something else behind, not to just be the sex-god from District 8 whose looks couldn't save him. I don't want to seem brainless, like District 4, blatantly announcing his weakness. I just need to be myself; if they like me, then good, more sponsors. If they don't, so what? I'll still have plenty of hopeful women bending over backwards to help me out, and at least I'll keep my sense of self.

Caesar slaps his hand on my back and I pull him in closer to shake his hand. I hope the crowd doesn't get the wrong idea about that.

"A firm handshake over here, everyone!" Caesar booms.

"You sound so surprised," I quip.

"Not at all, my boy! You've already captured the audience's attention with your strength."

"Just my strength?" I question with a smirk.

"Well, certainly your rugged good looks have a bit to do with it!"

"Well that's a big compliment. But just flexing at the Gamemakers can't earn you an 8 in training!" I say, determined to show I'm good at thing besides looking nice. Trying to prove I'm better than I am. It seems like everything I try to succeed in always leads back to that. My mother's constant comparisons to my dad. My bold attempts to get into girls' beds. And now I have all of Panem to impress. Can't a guy get a break?

"Well then, if that's not what you did, would you care to elaborate on how you did earn such a fine score?"

"Well, I used to play around with knives a lot when my mom wasn't around when I was younger,"

I'm interrupted by some silver-haired woman screaming "TIM, PLAY WITH ME WHEN YOUR MOM'S NOT AROUND!"

Ugh.

I'm repulsed, but I'm too good natured not to laugh and blow a kiss her way.

"I'll bet you'd like to take up that offer," Caesar snickers, "But I'm sure you already have a girl back home you can show off for."

I'm scrambling to get away from playing the good-looks card. Can't we let it go now?

"Well, there's one. My mom."

The crowd lets of a collective gasp. Dammit. Are you kidding me?

"Oh no! No, no, no," I sputter "Hell no, not like that!"

The audience sighs in relief. I bet that's the most stress they've felt all year.

"I love my mom, though. She's the only lady I care about impressing," I grin, hoping the crowd catches the hint "And I plan on making it back to her."

Silver-hair finds this the opportune moment to scream, "WHEN YOU WIN, TAKE ME HOME WITH YOU!"

The audience's robotic laughter roars in response. I feel my cheeks flushing with a number of things. Anger. Hurt. Embarrassment. I guess it doesn't matter what I say to them. They don't care if I'm intelligent or funny or have a family waiting back home. All they care is that I stand there and look good. And how long after the blood starts flowing will that last?

**Artemis Traymon; District 9**

The crowd falls silent when my name is called. I can feel my face burn hot with humiliation. Surely they've all heard about my outburst in training. They gape at me, the mothers clamping their colorful hands over the mouths of their children. Their eyes stare expectantly, as if prepared for me to leap forward and tear at Caesar's throat. This makes me even more determined to show them otherwise. Maybe I can act sweet enough for them to feel guilty about refusing help for my poor, deranged psyche. But, knowing I'm far from charming and the Capitol is far from merciful, probably not. I wish I would have planned out an angle prior to this; but the beefy Capitol guards refused to let me leave my room prior to these interviews. They, along with the Gamemakers, have probably been given strict instructions to ensure I have the least advantage possible at surviving the Arena. Wouldn't want a nutcase for a Victor! Disgusting people. I shouldn't have to play show-horse for them anyways, considering they're already having a lovely time counting down the hours until my death. So that's how I decide to play it. Detach myself from the outside world as usual. Maybe I'll come off as elusive or mysterious, instead of repulsed and homesick.

I'm concerned I won't take being in front of the entirety of Panem very well, since I can hardly function properly in my own presence and can only really hold a conversation with figments of my imagination; but when after I take a seat, Caesar and I make small-talk with ease. "Small" being an incredible over-statement; but at least I'm actually forming words. This in itself must come as a great relief to the audience, who seem to be loosening up tremendously after finding I am not foaming at the mouth.

After Caesar makes several attempts at pulling me out of my husk, it's clear he's getting nowhere. There's a low buzz throughout the crowd as they whisper amongst themselves. I can't tell if this is good or bad. I surprise myself when I look up to the cameras to find the nervous smile on my face looks less timid and far more conniving, while my eyes glint with calculation, gleaming a beautiful golden color brought out by the paint on my eyelids. I don't look as trembling and awkward as I thought; in fact, I bear remarkable resemblance to the tomcat that used to slink around the alleys back in 9. The silky black hair, the amber eyes, the air of craftiness. Surely I'm as alluring and hypnotic as that slinky cat. Hopefully I don't end up like he did, though; I killed him on one of my bad days.

"So," Caesar presses, "you received a tremendous training score of 9, leaving you tied for the second highest. As if that wasn't as intriguing enough, we've heard some interesting stories about your time in front of the Gamemakers."

My devious smile turns into one of genuine glee when I imagine how frantic the Gamemakers surely were, their eyes round and their mouths blubbering as they gossiped about my frenzy. I try to press down the smile, but I see it illuminate my triumph on the bright television. It looks far more evil than a smile should on my face, though.

"Please. They haven't seen anything yet."

**Cedar Larkson; District 9**

People start cheering the second my name is called. I should have expected this, what with my big show at the Opening Ceremonies and my general personable nature. I'm proud that I've found a way to get through to the Capitol through something besides brutality. It reminds me that no matter how twisted, they're still people too. And I may not be able to sling a spear, but people I can work with. If I can work into the crowd's hearts without cruelty, maybe I can get through the Games that way too. But I shouldn't press my luck just yet.

"Hello my lad!" Caesar chortles.

"Hey there, Caesar! It's nice to meet you."

"Not as nice as it is to finally meet you! You kept us all smiling on Opening Night."

"Well, it's my pleasure!" I say, waving towards the stands.

"You are definitely one of the favorites this year. But might I ask why you are so enthusiastic? Is it that you finally are in the great Capitol? Or are you just ready to get into the Games?"

"Are those my only choices?" I grin. If anyone else would have said this, the people would have been peeved, but they chuckle very good-naturedly.

"No, I'm just always like this. But I will admit being in the Capitol is great; although I think I might be losing sight in my left eye from all the colors. Whew!" I lift my hand to my forehead as if to shield away the pinks and blues that light up the City Circle. Everyone is guffawing, of course. It may come in handy now that I'm not taken too seriously, but in the Arena, that'll be my downfall. I have to play myself up a little bit.

"But certainly you aren't all fun and games. You received a 6 in training; not bad for one of our younger Tributes!"

"Oh, no, that was still fun and games. The Gamemakers are quite big fans of a good tap number. And if you sing along with it, you're guaranteed a good score!"

Even Caesar's face breaks into laughter at this one.

"Okay, that was a lie. But I am from District 9, where I've helped out in the fields since I was a kid. So I know my way around a blade!"

"I'm sure you're just as skilled at that as you are at doing a jig. And what are you other strategies for the Arena?"

"Well, I really just want to survive. I don't want to hurt anybody, but I'll do what I have to. And I hope to make some friends to help me out along the way!"

"That won't be a challenge for you! I'm sure already you have plenty of friends counting on you to get home. And what about your family?" Caesar queries.

"Well, my mom and dad of course. They both are the best. They work so hard for my family, and I'd love to bring them home some cash to help them out. Then my brothers, Rye and Garner, they're seventeen and six. I'm a little miffed that Rye didn't help me out at the reaping, but I've always showed him up anyways." I chuckle.

"And we're all hoping you make it home to gloat! We're rooting for you, Cedar," he finishes as the bell dings.

Well, I wasn't fearsome. But I definitely could have done worse.

**Kyla Montay; District 10**

I'm shaking in my boots when my name is called. I clamber out onto the stage, blushing the entire time. I can't do this. I can't be my happy, jovial self; even if I am about to burst into laughter at Caesar's likeliness to a blowfish. It's easier when you think that they are barely human, but it still is quite a task. I can hardly be myself in front of people I've known for years, let alone these batty brother-killers.

Hello, Kyla Montay! How are you tonight?" Caesar spiels.

"I'm good," I peep, "And how are you?" I try and force out a stronger voice at the last part, but my voice ends up cracking like a twelve year old boy and I flushed even redder.

"We're all doing great tonight! Very sweet of you to ask."

I let the slip out the smallest of smiles. This isn't so bad. It's not like these people are belligerent and crude directly. In fact, they're fairly humane up close and personal. But they aren't quite kind enough to sponsor a girl who barely has the guts to speak, let alone take someone's life.

"So, the Games begin tomorrow. What is your plan for survival? Caesar asks, offering up the most basic of questions for me to scramble up answers to. He really is a good guy, always helping out the Tributes as best he can.

"I'll stay out of the way for the most part, until things start slowing down. Then I'll come out fighting as hard as I can."

Caesar and I continue chatting, and I'm starting to warm up. I even get the audience to laugh a little bit. And that's when he asks it.

"So, it seems your last name is a familiar one," he turns to face the audience, "I'm sure we all recall Danny Montay of the 43rd Hunger Games!"

I'm too frozen for tears to spill. My breath catches in my throat. Caesar gestures to the large screens above. They wouldn't. They wouldn't.

Oh, but they do. The fear on my brother's face consumes the television. The girl from 6 storms after him. I look around frantically for some sort of condolence, some explanation for this act of ruthlessness. But there is none; the Tributes keep their heads down, picking at their clothing nervously, and the audience is in an absolute uproar. The girl from 6 swings the mace around her head; the cheers pause, the Tributes give me one more pained look of pity. And then I see, in the Capitol's full high-definition, the death of my brother once more.

**Thorne Marks; District 10**

That wasn't okay. It was hard even for me to watch Danny die again like that, but Kyla… They ring the buzzer early for her interview to end, but she still sits there, gaping at the screen. It takes a minute for her to collect herself and shuffle back to her seat, defeated. To make things worse, Bo, my mentor, is causing a scene in the stands, smashing her liquor bottle over the chair in front of her and shouting obscenities towards those over-seeing the interviews and just about anyone else around. The audience is in a tizzy; it takes Caesar slamming on the buzzer repeatedly until order is returned. Adjusting his ugly jacket like a chicken ruffling its feathers, he calls my name. And boy, I can't wait to give him a piece of my mind.

"Hello Thorne Marks, and how are you doing tonight?"

Jackass.

"Well, I just watched one of my good friends die on a jumbo-screen. You tell me."

"It was a most unfortunate death, wasn't it?"

"Clearly not enough for you people," I spit. Caesar doesn't even flinch. He's used to hostility from Tributes. I remember one year a girl from 7 smacked him right across the face. I'm considering following in her footsteps when he opens his fat mouth to ask more questions.

"Well then, how are you going to cope with the death in the Arena?"

"I have no problem with death. I do it all the time around the farm. And, using the Capitol's logic, people aren't much different than animals. Easily killed. There for your needs. I'm sure some of you even gather 'round to eat the bodies of the Tributes after they die, right?" I grin manically.

Caesar gulps.

"Filet of District 4? Wood smoked 7?" I try holding in my laughter at Caesar Flickerman's shocked expression as he scrambles to regain the upper hand in this interview.

"I've never had anything cooked over coals before. Does District 12 taste the best?"

I look over at the girl from 12, who's paling as I continue on. Next to her, the assholes from 11 looks like he's about to die if he doesn't get some oxygen soon. At least someone has a sense of humor.

"Mmm…" Caesar's eyes dart around looking for some help from the people filming, who only shrug and keep rolling. I smirk in triumph.

"So, you got a 7 in training. It's easy to see why, but would you care to elaborate?" he tries.

"I can tie a great noose. Wanna try it out?"

And with that went any sort of bond the Capitol made with me on Opening Night with my horse stunt.

"I'd rather see it in action on some of the other Tributes-"

"Of course you would," I interrupt.

"You made all of our heads turn at the Opening Ceremonies. Where did you learn how to handle yourself on a horse with such ease?"

What a _MORON._

"Seriously? I'm from District 10. We cook up all of the horse meat that you probably tell your loyal citizens is beef."

The audience buzzes as people gasp and whisper to themselves. Bo is waving her arms wildly and throwing her head back with laughter. I'm doing pretty well, here. Surely my opportunity for sponsors has been wrecked, but it's not like these tight asses ever helped me get by before; why would they start now?

**Lila Carter; District 11**

I'm going to be a definite let-down after District 10's little show. No schemes of sparkly gowns for Lila Carter. Caesar calls my name, and I catch him flinching a little when I stand up. As expected, for a frail little man like himself. I've always looked rather intimidating, and my size isn't helped by the colossal heels I stagger in. Thankfully my mentor suggested I continue on with this gruff demeanor; it wasn't exactly far out of my reach.

"Hello Lila Carter! The first volunteer from District 11 in the history of the Games!"

I smile and nod curtly. I wasn't aware I earned that title. It's not something I'm completely proud of, but you have to do what you have to do.

"What inspired you to volunteer for your District?" he probed.

"Well, life was rough back home. This is my way out."

People are probably expecting more information, but even Annabel doesn't know my history. Why would I tell the entire Capitol? Besides, playing the pity card is not a good idea for me.

"Not only did you set the record with your subjecting yourself to the Games, you also hold the highest score of each of this year's Tributes! What earned you your incredible 10?"

To be honest, I'm not sure. I came in, did my thing, and got out of there as soon as possible. Phoenix Chases' eyes are shooting daggers in my direction; and it's only so long until that metaphor becomes reality. I'm sure she'd love all this attention I'm getting, but I don't. My big frame, volunteering, a high score; I'm a walking target.

"You'll just have to wait and see," I say, shooting a confident glare at the crowd.

"Ah, you're killing us! You can't be all brawn though; any loved ones back home?"

"My friend, Annabel. And my little brother, Lucas. "

"What about your parents?"

For a famed interviewer, he sure lacks grace.

"You said loved ones," I growl, recalling my family's absence in the Justice Building before my departure, "Besides. My dad died in these Games a while back. Never knew him."

The pull the same thing they did on the District 10 girl, and above me I see a dark-skinned man who must be my father struggle against a boy with sword, which ends bloodily. People peer at me as if expecting me to burst into tears, but I don't bat an eye. I honestly don't feel even a stroke of sadness. He left me alone. With them.

"Maybe his daughter will prove to be far more successful."

"She will." I state with certainty.

The crowd cheers wildly, and I catch a glimpse of myself on the screen. I look fearsome; my thick hair forming a sort of mane around my head, my green eyes contrasting my brown skin, the muscle definition in my arms highlighted by the flashing lights of the stage.

"How do you feel about the other competitors?"

"Most of them aren't really competitors," I venture, "Sure, they can chuck an axe and aim a bow. But that's not what you need to win these Games. You need to have an edge. One that most Tributes from places like 1 and 2 don't have".

It's a bold statement, but it's the truth.

"Well, that certainly can help you win. Allies can help as well. Do you have any to assist you on your journey?"

No, I don't. That looks like the common choice for this year; even the tiny girl from 6 is going solo. I glance over in her direction. Even her fluffy dress can't conceal her maturity. Anyone who couldn't see her capability from her wavering eyes and sneaky movements were certainly proven wrong from her feisty interview. She was calculative, she was hardened, she was a survivor; and she reminded me far too much of myself.

"No," I say, pulling myself away from the little girl, "No I do not."

"You, my dear, radiate confidence!" Caesar gushes.

"I have nothing to lose."

With one final smug grin, my buzzer rings, and I rise with assurance and the deafening sound of applause erupting throughout the Circle. I'm sure my step-father is eating every negative word he's ever said to me now; which means he'll be stuffing his face a hell of a lot more than he ever let me.

**Arden Wade; District 11**

Damn. Even from the beginning I've been grossly over-shadowed by Lila. Anyone else might be seriously ticked about being outshone by a District 11 girl, but it's fine by me. I want to steer clear of the attention. Pulling something like Lila is that last thing someone should do in the Arena; make herself the target. My name booms out over the stands, and I stagger up to the seat. Lights flash all around me, combined with bright colors that make my eyes squint even more than usual. What I wouldn't give for a drink right now.

Caesar tries to get the ball rolling with the basic questions, but he doesn't get very far. I can't play aloof and hostile as I'd like to, because Barka Blaine from 7 already had that in the basket. I decided beforehand to go with brooding asshole, since it'll make me look rough, but be unpleasant enough for me to fly by without much notice.

"You sure seem like a tough guy. You must have something to make up for your fairly low training score," Caesar tries.

I almost laugh at this. Caesar Flickman practically kisses the feet of every Tribute that walks on this stage, and it takes him a lot to feel otherwise; but I feel like I've succeeded.

"Well, I can't exactly jump the Gamemakers like I would at home," I growl.

"Looks like we have a fighter here, ladies and gentlemen!"

He seems very pleased with himself for finally getting something worthwhile out of me. Doesn't this guy have something better to do? Get his forehead waxed or something?

"So, how do you feel about your District partner? She's making quite a show here!"

I like Lila. She may look tough, but she's always been polite. She has one of those voices that sound like honey. She's had a rough way to go, but she's a nice gal. So I'll help her out with her little hard-ass act.

"She's the one person I've ever met that could kick my ass."

The crowd laughs on cue, and I catch Lila throwing me a gracious little grin. I wink her way, which fortunately goes unnoticed by the cameras.

"So no allies, then?"

Dammit. I don't. Yet. But I need to; the idea of going into that Arena with no one by my side makes me want to hurl.

"No. I'm a loner."

Sounds kind of tough, but a complete lie. Oh well; when I make it to the final 8 and they have to plow through interviews with all of my friends, they'll see I'm not a total tool.

"So no ladies back home?"

"Good one. No."

"I'm surprised! You're a handsome fella. Maybe you can find love in the Arena?"

Love in the Arena? What the hell is this guy on? They drip out morphling like it's water here.

"Yeah, I bet. The sunset on the horizon, the view from the trees. We look into each other's eyes,"

Caesar looks absolutely giddy.

"Then she stabs me in the gut and tears my intestines out of my asshole," I finish.

I'm not surprised when the bell rings shortly after.

**Keishi Tayne; District 12**

Wow. This is just another reason District 12 has only had one Victor so far. Not only are we the least appealing District, we're the last to be interviewed; the crowd is getting tired, the Tributes are getting bored, and Caesar Flickerman is running out of questions. But those aren't the only flaws of being last to go; with all of the beauty queens and blood thirsty brutes before me, I'm terrified. Not only do I have to go up against these people in a fight to the death, I have to compete in a popularity contest with them too. And up against people like Burl Lichten and Lila Carter, I won't stand a chance in either fight. Not to mention the fact the boy from 10 called me out, mentioning something about cannibalism!

When Ceasar calls me my name, it feels like a dream; all the swirling colors and lights fixed on me! Part of me feels sick; being all dressed up for slaughter. But I know that if I am going to die, I should live happily until then.

"Hello Keishi," Caesar say, kissing my hand.

I giggle softly and kiss his cheek before sitting down. He places his hand over the spot I kissed and pretends to blush, exaggerating how flattered he feels towards the audience.

"Hello Caesar! How are you?"

"Fabulous, Keishi! The Hunger Games are upon us, and we're having a wonderful start! How does it feel to be a part of this great event?"

"Umm," I smile, "It's definitely different. I just hope I stand a chance in these Games!"

"Well, a pretty girl with charm like you has to go far! How did you feel when you were reaped?"

"Well, I was scared at first. But then, I thought, you only live once, and I've had a good life so far, so I might as well take what comes to me! Besides, I'm very thankful none of my friends were chosen instead of me. That would be unbearable."

I only wish my friends felt the same way. To be honest, I was heartbroken no one offered to volunteer for me. I probably would have stopped them, but It would have been kind is someone had tried. I've never been anything but kind; I wish some other people would try it too.

"I'm sure your friends would love to see you come back home. And what about your family?"

"Well, I was born to two very loving, very young parents. They had no choice but to keep me. They were so very very young. It was many years before they decided to make things official and get married. A few more years after that, they had my little brother, Rivett. He's only six years old, and looks and acts very much like me already!" I can feel tears start to form in my eyes, but I wipe them away quickly. I need to show them that I am strong!

"They sound like excellent people. Just like you. What do you plan on doing to get back to them?"

"I just want to survive. I don't want to hurt anybody; I just want to get home. I'm small and I can hide very easily. Plus, I'm used to missing a few meals. Just because I'm sweet, doesn't mean you can count me out just yet!" I say with a smile.

"I would never, Keishi!" Caesar says warmly, "And do you have anyone to help you out in the Arena?"

"Oh, I'd hate to have someone be my friend, only to have them die later. I do not. My plan is to lay low until I have to."

"Well, Keishi, I sincerely hope that works out in your favor," Caesar says, giving my hand another kiss as the buzzer rings, and my time is over.

**The Games are about to begin! I'm going to have one more chapter of the night before the Games that will be up TOMORROW, and then the bloodbath will begin. If you have a Tribute in these Games and have not yet reviewed, telling me your opinion of how I portrayed your Tribute and other things, I WILL kill your Tribute at the bloodbath! There is also a poll up on my profile on your favorite Tribute that I'd love for you to vote on. You may chose two, and PLEASE do not make both of your choices your own characters. I also need for you to do me a favor:**

** Fanfiction author **_**missbeccaaa **_**is currently writing an SYOT that three Tributes of mine are a part of. She is currently holding voting for Tributes for sponsorship points… and I need your votes! Please go read the amazing story (just one chapter length so far) and vote for 1) Roman Caulder 2) Harbor Aberdeen 3) Fruman Bane and then two of your choice! Don't feel like you have to vote for all three of mine, but at least pick one, since I'm showing you this great story! It's one of the few SYOT's I've read with completely realistic and unique Tributes, so go go go! .net/s/7826947/2/Seventy_One_Years**


	15. The Last Night

**Phoenix Chase; District 1**

After my interview, Daddy gives me a surprise visit. He had been told to stay in the assigned Victor's Quarters, but he broke out just for me. We Chases have a way of getting what we want. It was good to see him; but his advice was even better. He reminds me of how he won his Games. With the stab, the twist, the pull, and the death of the girl from 11. He demands mine end the same.

**Averil Alerderline; District 2**

I'm alone. I'm in a frozen wasteland, all alone. All I can register is fear, but I try to push it away. I tilt my head upward and catch a fluffy snowflake on the tip of my tongue. The taste turns metallic, and the red drips from my mouth. Spatters of blood fall from the sky. I start to choke. I am dying; bloody and alone.

I jerk myself erect, panting and wiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead. Just a dream. Up until now, it was almost sad how indifferent I was to my impending death. Now, like in my dream, I realize all I'm doing is running away from my fear. And that never ends well.

**Floe Quince; District 3**

Beetee tries giving me some final advice before I fall asleep. He tells me to come to him if I can't sleep. What a creep! What do I have to be afraid of? And if I have reason to be scared, it's not like old Volts can help me out. I'm going to be just fine. I fall asleep, dreaming of what tomorrow holds.

**Shea Gondor; District 4**

I pretend to be excited during dinner; and part of me really is. But part of me feels sick to my stomach. Getting to know the Tributes tonight, I realize I don't want to kill them. In fact, some of them I could see myself liking. But I have to do what I have to do. Besides, shouldn't I be ecstatic? I've been anticipating this moment my entire life! I act indifferent as I fake a yawn and proudly announce I'm shuffling off to bed. Mags sees right through this, though. I don't object when she hobbles over to the couch beside my bed, guarding over me while I sleep.

**Camellia Embury; District 5**

My mentor told me how much of a hit I was, how much the crowd loved me. But Panem, the Capitol, and these Games have nothing to do with love. They are about hatred, vengeance and survival. Three things I lack; but somewhere, deep down inside me, they must be there. I just have to coax them out.

**Burl Lichten; District 6**

I sleep like the baby I'm not.

**Joyce Anne Irving; District 7**

I'm handling this better than I thought I would. I hear smashing from Barka's room next to me; I want to go in there and tell him to calm down, that we'll be alright. But that sort of thinking; thinking like an actual HUMAN; isn't allowed here. Or in the Arena, for that matter, where I'll be vying against him…but since when have I been one to play by the rules?

**Marley Deerlard; District 8**

Thank goodness I'm smart enough to stay strong in front of the cameras. But as soon as I'm alone again, the tears start back up. I'm scared. I just want to go _home. _What did I do to deserve to die? Tim raps on my door, asking if I'm okay. He's such a sweet guy. If I can't make it home, I at least hope he does.

**Cedar Larkson; District 9**

I try to lie down, but I won't be sleeping tonight. The hours pass, with me staring blankly at the wall, listening to Artemis stirring in the room over. I try to find a positive side to this; but really, for once, there isn't.

**Thorne Marks; District 10**

I try falling asleep, but it's hard over Kyla's sobs. I don't know how she can cry so damn hard! I'm two seconds from screaming for her to shut the hell up, but I stop myself. Poor girl lost her brother, and now she's heading in his direction. She's a sweetheart and I know it; that's why I decide to suck it up and drag myself to her room, grumbling the whole way. If I don't help this girl, I'm stooping just as low as the Capitol; and I will _not _let that happen. But after this, no more soft stuff. I promise.

**Arden Wade; District 11**

Well, this is it. The Cornucopia will be tough; but the hell I'm getting away empty handed. I'll stay and fight a little bit, then book it out of there. And that's about as far as my planning goes. Looks like I'll just have to wing it. I try to work out at least a little strategy, but I'm drifting off to sleep.

**Keishi Tayne; District 12**

Oh, what am I going to do? Malachi is throwing things and laughing in the room next to me; the poor guy isn't okay. I feel for him, I really do; but right now, I can't help but pity myself as well. It doesn't feel right, being anything but selfless. But I'm going into the Arena in hours, so I'll have to adjust.

**And, let the Games begin! Updates will come much faster once they start. I already have the basic outline of how everything is going to go. I'm having 7 tributes die in the bloodbath, and I am VERY sorry if yours dies. I love all of my Tributes, but I had to choose some! I encourage you to keep reading if your Tribute dies though, as they will be mentioned often and the Games are going to be quite entertaining. Remember, if you haven't reviewed for your character, now is the time to! I feel that 7 is too low a number for my bloodbath, so I'd like to add in some more, if you catch my drift. Don't forget to vote in the poll, either! Also, the link for the SYOT I would like for you to vote for my tributes in is in the reviews. Remember to vote for Roman Caulder, Harbor Aberdeen, Fruman Bane, and two others. I'm coming up with a surprise for everyone who I see vote **


	16. Let the Games Begin

**Phoenix Chase; District 1**

This is real. This is it. I'm going into the Hunger Games. I bounce up and down on my boot-covered toes, pacing my breath. I jog over to the mirror along the cement wall. My face is flushed pink with my range of emotions, and although my hair is tied into a firm knot, flyaway strands are already beginning to stick to the sweat along my brow. The clothes I'm put in aren't anything special; a fitted shirt, a light jacket, flexible pants; but that in no way means the Arena is going to be simple. Dad has always said that the less elaborate the Arena, the gorier the Games. I can't help but smirk at the thought. Imagine, Phoenix Chases' Games shattering blood-soaked records!

"Phoenix?" my stylist squeaks, "We're ready to go!"

I normally would have no patience for this dolt, but not even she can get me down. I clasp her hands, bouncing up and down with excitement before nearly skipping to the glass tube that would launch me into stardom. She looks a little nervous at my sheer excitement, but I ignore her awkward glances. I'll be dealing with bigger idiots than her in just a few minutes, and these ones I can legally kill. The tube seal around me, and after a wave of my stylist's hand, the platform begins to creak up. I hold my fingers against the thick glass, letting them drag along the cool surface. I want to experience every bit of this.

Finally, I'm hit with an earthy smell, and I know this is it. I close my eyes, wanting to take all of this in at once. It's not until I'm hit with a chilly gust of wind that I open them once again in a flourish. Well. This looks interesting.

_"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 47__th__ Annual Hunger Games begin!"_

I have sixty seconds to survey the Arena and come up with a Game plan. The Arena doesn't seem to be much of anything but dead. The Cornucopia rests in the center of the rocky, scraggly plains before us. It won't be easy to escape; there are rough hills on each side, leading up to a gnarled, decaying forest. The sky is overcast, adding to the foreboding look of the place. I look at those around me. The gangly goon from 3 is to my left, and the quivering baby from 12 is on my right. Pathetic. Where is she? My real competition? I peer around the Cornucopia, and there she is. Brow creased and fists clenched, looking angrily through her wild hair. Lila Carter, you are dead. I crouch down, bending one foot in front of the other in running position. I am ready.

_5_

_4_

_3_

_2_

_1_

And the gong sounds.

**Shea Gondor; District 4**

We barely have time to scramble off of our plates before the scrawny boy from 6 appears at the Cornucopia, collecting a massive pack and a lethal array of knives. The Floe Quince is racing towards him, poised to attack, but the kid whirls around and skewers her through the neck, catching her right out of the air. She falls to the ground, and I freeze to watch the kid dash up the steep hill and into the woods. Well. That was interesting.

I shake my head, reminding myself where I'm at, and make a mad dash to the Cornucopia. Linus, who along with Gregory is in charge of guarding the supplies, tosses me a familiar pronged spear. Ah, the trident has always fit so nicely in my hands. I turn around just in time to see Majestic reach the top of the hill and clamber into the woods. I can't help but feel a little relief; even as I nod to Barka, who has appeared at my side with a heavy axe, ready to kill.

**Barka Blaine, District 7**

This is not okay. Tim Hart gave me a nice blow to the face when I tried going after him, but I bet even he knew I wouldn't really hurt him. The boy from 12 stabs the boy from 5 repeatedly, before Shea skewers him from behind. Someone bumps into me, and I wheel around, axe first. I buries in the girl from 10, the poor little one who lost her brother's head. I feel like I'm going to be sick. I feel like I'm going to cry. But I can't. Not here.

**Arden Wade; District 11**

They don't call it a bloodbath for nothing. Kids are dying everywhere I look, and I haven't even left my plate. Here goes nothing. I make a mad dash for a pack across the way and as I dive for it, I'm hit by what feels like a boulder. Shit. It's Thorne Marks. He gives me a dizzying hit to the jaw and yanks the bag from my hands. Who the hell does this guy think he is? I can feel myself slipping away into rage as I shove him backwards and tighten my hands around his throat, leaving him coughing at sputtering. His dark eyes look frantic as he tries shouting something, his arms waving frantically. He peels away from my grasp, and falls sputtering to the ground just as the boy from 4 finishes off his District partner.

"Shit," he spits.

I stand there looking dumb, unsure of what to do.

"What are you doing, you ass?" he shouts, shaking his sadness away, "grab that pack over there, let's go!"

I turn around in confusion and grab the backpack a few feet away, then trudge after Thorne up the hill. Well, at least I won't be alone.

**Artemis Traymon; District 9**

I'm running. Running. Running. That's all I can think to do. I always ran back in 9. When I was angry, scared, nervous, hurt. And now I'm all of the above. I eventually stop, just as something rustles through the trees. I ready myself to attack; but to my surprise, its Cedar, carrying a decent-sized backpack and with blood gushing from a hole in his arm. Blood. Oh no.

**Lila Carter; District 11**

I watch as the little girl from 12 is speared straight through the gut by the sullen one from 2. I need to book it out of here, and fast. I dash as close as I dare to the Horn of Plenty, grabbing a hatchet lying on the ground and crawling over to a heavy bag. A pale hand grips the handle at the same time I do. I jerk my head up to find myself staring into the determined eyes of Joyce Anne from 7, who gives me a filthy look as she digs her fingernails into my hand. I hiss with pain but keep grappling for the pack, until out of the corner of my eyes, I see a blonde head hurtling towards us, swinging a gleaming sword. Shit. Phoenix Chase. I knew she had it out for me; and now she was going to kill me while I was down. Joyce jerks the bag from me while I'm distracted… but no. I won't let this happen. I wind my fist back and nail Joyce Anne square in the eye, causing her to stumble back, closer to Phoenix's wrath. I snatch up the fallen bag and speed off. I hear a squish and my foot feels icy cold. I've stepped in a puddle. A puddle means water, which I need to find first. A similar one lies not too far away, leading me towards the vast, scraggly field. That'll do. I run past the body of the boy from 5, and I feel a knot of dread in my stomach when I see his pool of blood is shared by Lia Withers from 6. I need to run.

**Joyce Anne Irving; District 7**

I though the 11 girl was a bitch, but she's nothing compared to the girl I'm dealing with now. I have my wits and a long dagger I scared up from the ground, but it's nothing compared to her sword and skill. I can feel myself tiring with every swing. I jerk my arm down, the dagger going straight through her hand. She cries out; more out of rage than pain. I feel triumphant; and then I feel everything fade away.

**Gregory Hendrick; District 2**

Everyone else but my alliance has either kicked the bucket or cleared out. We stand atop the pile of weapons and bottles and bags, mulling over our options. We can't stay here for long, though. There's no visible water source whatsoever, and there's isn't a drop in the Cornucopia. Phoenix made a point of letting us know this very loudly, as if we weren't aware. She's already starting to get under my skin; she's clearly the dumbest one here, but insists on taking charge, probably just because her daddy's done this before. And that's no reason for her to treat us like we're lackeys. I climb down, striding over to Linus, who is twisting a sword around in his big hands.

"Phoenix is awful, huh?" I laugh. Linus gives me a quick, uncomfortable smile as goes back to his weapon. Damn. The guy is made of stone. Even Barka has opened up to me a little bit, but this guy is persistent. It could either mean he's an idiot, or he's brilliant. And I'm not sure I like it either way. And speaking of our "leader", she clambers to the top of the pile, and clears her throat. I can't hold in my laughter when no one even looks her way. Who does this girl think she is?

"Everyone grab the biggest bag you can, and as many weapons as you can tote. We need to find water," she finishes.

"You think of that all by yourself?" Linus says dryly.

Damn it. He's brilliant.

"No," Averil says, opening her mouth for the first time, "we find the water source then we come back. We can't leave the Cornucopia unguarded with all of these weapons."

And that's why we should be listening to Averil, not Phoenix.

"Oh?" Phoenix questions, jumping down from the pile and creeping closer to Averil, "And who put you in charge? The shy, stumbling little orphan who can hardly talk, let alone throw a decent spear?"

Averil's shoulders slump and her eyes cast down, defeated.

"That's enough," Barka says, putting his hand on Phoenix's shoulder. She throws his hand away, but turns around and walks back to the pile. I have a whole new respect for the 7 guy, getting even Phoenix to shut up.

"We'll take everything we can and then find a water source. Once we see where it's at and how accessible it is, then we'll see if we can come back or we should stay there," Shea says.

And so we go, hiking bags and bows onto our shoulders as we head for the steep hills. I count the bodies as I pass. Floe, who was killed by an underdog only seconds into the Games, the girl from 10, 12's male and female, the girl from 7 who crossed Phoenix, and the 5 boy slumped next to Lia Withers from 6. Seeing that is a little heart-wrenching, but I suck it up. I'm the youngest one here, not to mention I have the lowest score, so I have to look a little rougher than usual in front of my allies. We reach the dark, dead woods after huffing and puffing up the slope, and the Games begin for real.

**Lia Withers; District 6**

As soon as the trained pack disappears into the woods, I jump up, squirming to brush the blood of the District 5 boy off of me. Still shivering from the way his open eyes stared at me with fear, I pause to make sure the coast is clear. No one's coming back here, not with the death and blood and the trained alliance making their camp here, like everyone surely thinks. I walk straight over to the Cornucopia and pick out all the things I want. There's a huge bag of tools, which I find a little odd and toss to the ground, the contents spilling out onto the scratchy plain. I dig into a bag that holds enough food to last a week and a full jug of water and sling it over my bony shoulder. It's heavy, but I can take it until I find a place to hide. I find another heavy jacket, which will come in handy in this chilly weather, and I'm even happier to find it's lined with knives. I grab a couple more useful items, like iodine and socks, and head for the woods. I'm proud of how I played it; they'll know I'm dead when they show the faces in the sky tonight, but I slid through the bloodbath without detection and walked away with all of the things I could want and more. They'll probably think I'm bleeding out slowly by the Cornucopia, making me even less of a target than before. I smile to myself. The mind isn't a muscle, but it can be strong enough.

**Bennett Howard; District 3**

I emerge from the trees just as she slips into the woods. Well, played, District 6. She is incredibly bright for a small girl, and I make a mental note to keep her on my radar. I slide down the steep plateau, arriving at the Cornucopia after a few rolls. I dust the dirt from my pants and stride proudly towards the pile of supplies, confident in what I will find. That alliance is brainless, just as I thought. Leaving the Cornucopia completely accessible was a mistake even the most simple of children would not make. But, who am I to complain, since I'm reaping the benefits of their stupidity? I manage to find a light bag of all the basic things I will need, and then some. A few knives, a sleeping bag, a line of rope. I'm about to retreat back into the woods, when my foot catches on something sprawled on the ground. A wrench. It lies, a short distance from a large bag, unzipped and opened. Curiosity gets the best of me as I grip the wrench and walk over to the bag, lifting it up to peer inside. It's full of tools; every one you can imagine and then some. Jumper cables, wires, even a miniature blowtorch. A smug grin melts over my face. There's a reason for this bag. And I am certain I will find it.

**Dulce Davindrue; Capitol**

This certainly is the most exciting Games yet! The bright, beautiful and bloody Tributes are the stars this year, seeing as the bland Arena consists mainly of a vast, decrepit forest. But as the camera pans out from its view of the Cornucopia to show the Arena in full, I catch something looming in the distance from beyond the trees. Oh my. This is far better than I thought.


	17. Along For the Ride: Day One

**Alice Santoro; 12; District 1; sister of tribute Linus Santoro**

My parents are fighting again from the kitchen, but I hardly notice. Although they barely realize Linus is gone, possibly forever, it's all I can think about. My eyes stay glued to the screen, my scowl firmly in place. He wasn't meant for this. Any outsiders would think his demeanor was that of raw power and an anxiousness to kill, but I know better than that. These cocky, perverse allies of his are making him sick. When they sit to rest, Linus sets himself up as far from the bunch as he can. I hear them gossiping, casting angry looks his way. They think he's arrogant. They think his detachment is out of aloofness. When Phoenix Chase whispers about getting rid of him, one would expect to feel my blood run cold. Instead, I smile. She's scared. They see him as a threat. They think he'll be the one to end them all, when really; all he wants to do is get home. But as I hear a bottle break from behind me, and tune into the shouts and stomping, I remember that this is no home. I reach out and let my fingers drag over Linus's jumpy image. I plead for him to make it, to come back, to rescue me.

**Bennet Chase; 33; District 1; father of tribute Phoenix Chase**

My chest still swells when I remember my victory fifteen years ago. The guilt of killing was a small price to pay for the honor of winning; and returning to see my daughter's smiling face. I may have been young, but I knew I always wanted to best for Phoenix; and the only thing I found more satisfactory than winning the Games was imagining her very own victory. And now, it's finally happening for her. And I have never been more proud.

**Anthony Ramirez; 15; District 2; friend of tribute Gregory Hedrick**

Greg was always a smart guy. Smarter than most of the dolts in 2, anyways. The barbaric people here were the center of most of our jokes. And now he's sunk to their level.

**Boudicca Alerderline; 31; District 2; mother of tribute Averil Alerderline**

I was young. Her father left me. I couldn't keep her. I hoped one day, I could be with her again. But now, that time would never come.

**Sloane Hawking; 16; District 3; friend of tribute Bennett Howard**

I stop by to visit the Howards every day. Bennett's family tries to go on business as usual, but you can tell it's hurting them so much. There never was enough love in their house, and now there's even less. His little brother and sister cling to my legs when I let myself into the dank apartment, and his mom stops stirring whatever's cooking on the old stove to give me a slight smile. I wave brightly, but it goes unnoticed. I'll never know how I managed to befriend Bennett, who was raised to be so stoic. I suppose that's what's keeping him alive in the Arena. I creep into the living room and lower myself next to Lennox, Bennett's twin brother. He's tinkering with some little metal box, pretending not to be absorbed with the Games like I know he is.

"How's he doing?" I ask, my voice clearly laced with worry.

"Better than I ever thought he would," he leans back and lets out a puff of air, "But clearly you haven't seen the Arena. The odds are well in District 3's favor this year."

**Carmel Tiff; 17; District 4; girlfriend of tribute Shea Gondor**

The baby kicked for the first time yesterday. It kicks to the rhythm of my heart beat; to the rhythm of Shea's footsteps as he trudges through that wasteland of an Arena. My family has been supportive. The neighbors have been a great help. But the only hope I cling onto is that Shea will come home to me. To our baby. To life.

**Walter Hudson; 14; District 4; boyfriend of tribute Majestic Finley**

There's no way she can do this. But she has to. She escaped the Cornucopia with nothing but a plastic bottle and a tiny knife I know she'll never use. Her legs are shaking from sickness, cold and fear as she lowers herself towards the jagged creek that serves as the Arena's only water source. Her persistent cough picks up, and she tries to muffle it with the edge of her jacket, her head jerking around in panic. I can't take it anymore. I walk outside into the warmth and sunshine that is so opposite Majestic's despicable Arena. And in that moment, I realize how much I hate the Capitol. For making us feel so helpless. For leaving Majestic to die of disease. And for their disgusting Games.

**Lemi Embury; 39; District 5; father of tribute Camellia Embury**

I watch the Games through the bottom of a bottle. The burning alcohol is my escape. As my daughter clambers through the woods, cold and alone, it pains me to know her time in the Arena is not much different than what I gave her. When my wife died, leaving me alone with that red-headed baby, I couldn't feel anything. There wasn't anger. There wasn't love. There was nothing. There still is nothing. I should feel pride, in the fact my daughter grew up happy despite my cold distance. I should feel love, because she is a beautiful piece of the woman I needed so desperately. I should feel my heart breaking, because she was torn away from me and sent to die. But I don't. My wife will be happy to see my daughter. And I will join them soon after.

**Ivo Dargie; 12; District 6; friend of tribute Burl Lichten**

That 'a boy, Burl. The Arena's scary this year; but I doubt anyone who isn't from 3 or 6 will have a clue what it is. Plus, he's got a big bag, a handful of knives, and one kill under his belt. Our years of sneaking and trouble-making are helping him out here. I know he can do this. He's Burl Lichten; the fastest, smartest, meanest-looking guy I know. We were always as different as day and night, my happy-go-lucky attitude against his rough-and-tough act. But it's always been me and Burl, parent and cash-less against the world. I told him if he doesn't come back, I'd kick his ass. He said that didn't make any sense, but the threat still stands. I need the guy; without him I'm all alone.

**Matilda Withers; 28; District 6; mother of tribute Lia Withers**

A light flickers on from the box. I squeal at the sight. The colors dance through the box, and I sway with their movement. I see there are kids in the box. Why are they in there? I tap tap tap on the box to get them to come out, but they are stuck. It isn't nice to stick children in boxes. I see a flash of red. Red is the best color. It makes me want to dance. The red belongs to the hair of a little girl. I don't know this little girl, but she makes me happy. She does not look very happy, though. It makes me wants to cry. I keep the little girl in my head as I tap my finger on the pointy needle, the needle that makes me feel like flying. I want to fly and help the little girl. I want to hurt whoever stuck her in that box.

**Narles Dove; 44; District 7; uncle of tribute Barka Blaine**

It's nice not to have my sister's brats loafing about the house anymore. Big Barka doesn't look so tough on that tiny television screen, and Azalea only comes home from who knows where to cook dinner and clean the place up. She does what I say, now; I've already let her know that her brother ain't coming back to save her.

**Lacey Hart; 40; District 8; mother of tribute Tim Hart**

I had always told my son how much he was unlike his father. It had hurt him; and it hurts me that I never told him of all the incredible qualities they shared. Their way with words, their shiny blue eyes, their ability to always know what's right. There was one way they were different that I hope will never change. And that is while one of their hearts has stopped, the other continues beating with a valiant goodness I have always been proud of. And one way or the other, I hope the Arena does not change that.

**Hellard Cordovan; 16; District 8; "fiancé" of tribute Marley Deerlard**

The can of coins in my pocket rattles with every step I take down the cracked pavement towards the Justice Building. There's a collection jar set up there, as there is every year, to raise a bit of extra money to sponsor our Tributes. I don't usually put more than a couple cents in there, but this year, I desperately need someone to come home. Marley never wanted to marry me. But when my mother first introduced me to that spunky girl, all legs and good intentions, I knew I wanted nothing more. However, I wanted it to be real. Not some old forced tradition. I tried talking to her every once in a while, but every time I looked into her brown doe-eyes, I found myself tripping up. But now, this isn't just a struggle for love. It's a contest for survival. And I'll be fighting just as hard as any Tribute to get her back and have one more chance.

**Rye Larkson; 16; District 9; brother of tribute Cedar Larkson**

Why didn't I volunteer for Cedar? Why? No one would be sad to see belligerent me go. Not to mention I would actually stand a chance. I guess I was just so fed up living in the perfect, peppy shadow of someone 3 year my junior that the idea of saving his life didn't even occur to me. But man, do I regret it now. He's teamed up with the most crazy girl in our District, who nearly tore his arm off at the sight of the cut he earned at the bloodbath. She earned a 9 in training, higher than his 6, but that's probably because she bit a Gamemaker or something. Mom hasn't stopped crying and Dad hasn't left the fields since Reaping Day, leaving me alone with my little brother Rye, who is incredibly clueless.

"There's Cedar!" he sings as Cedars pink and panicked face fills the screen. Nearly had a run in with the trained alliance of assholes lurking around the gnarled woods. They made it out no problem, though, thanks to crazy old Artemis throwing a good fit. I hug Rye to my chest, talking in the soft, kind voice reserved for so few people.

"He'll be home before we know it."

**Jaymon Ray; 15; District 9; friend of tribute Artemis Traymon**

"Hello," I start as the door creaks open, "I'm collecting money in support of Artemis-" and once again, I'm cut off by the door's slam. This is the eight time this had happened. I knew people feared Artemis; although I never understood why, she's sweet as pie most of the time; but to dislike her to the point of allowing her death? That's cold, even for the disheartened folk of District 9. But I'm not going to let that happen. I've helped her out all her life and I intend to get her through this too. I snag a couple more coins from the pockets of a group of Peacekeepers standing around the Town Square and drop them in Artemis's sponsorship bucket. The one labeled "Cedar Larkson," the male Tribute's name is overflowing with cash, while Artemis's is collecting cobwebs, so I pour half of his money into her bucket, not caring who sees. He won't mind. And it won't matter, anyways, because she'll be the only one to come home.

**Air Marks; 4; District 10; sister of tribute Thorne Marks**

I feel bad, playing in the woods without my Thorne. So I make a little doll that looks a little like him that I carry around to make me laugh. I miss my Thorne. I don't know where he went, but mommy says he'll be home soon. I hope she's right.

**Markus Wade; 45; District 11; father of tribute Arden Wade**

This was never supposed to happen. Volunteering to be a Peacekeeper in 11 means the number of your children's slips was cut in half. It was a hard job, but it meant Arden would be happy, healthy and safe. Out of the thousands upon thousands of slips, three said his name. But it wasn't enough. In the Districts, you're never safe.

**Bertram Silo; 38; District 11; step-father of tribute Lila Carter**

Finally, I got my bimbo wife to shut up about her dumb daughter. I never liked the girl; she was a little bitch that never earned her keep. If she thought she was tough enough to win the Games, fine, it's no hair off my chin. Maybe if she does somehow get through it, she can bring us back some cash instead of disrespect to pay me back all I've done for her. Right now, she's bumbling through a field of nothing but rocks, not a drop of water in sight. If she had anything good going for her, she would've known the big creek's the only drop of water in the forsaken place. But it don't mean nothing to me if she dies. One less thing I have to worry about.

**Sorry for the filler chapter, I just didn't want to kill off any Tributes on the first day, and I wanted to explore some of the Tribute's lives back home. **

**http : / chuckesleaze . blogspot . com / **

**Remove the spaces on the above link and it will take you to all of the character pages! Sorry if your tribute doesn't look dead-on their description, I tried my best. I didn't want to make anyone look older than they are. I also used a few celebrities, which feels kind of weird, but oh well! PM me with any questions or concerns!**


	18. Wheels Keep Turning: Day Two

**Thorne Marks; District 10**

I wake up at the crack of dawn to Arden snoring his ass off. Still groggy from sleep, I give him a little shove and find myself much more awake at the sight of him flail with panic in response.

"Dumb ass," I chortle, jumping up and slinging my pack full of food and bulky knives over my shoulder. Arden and I may not be well camouflaged here next to the stream, but I'm not concerned. Arden's and even bigger guy than I am, although he doesn't act it much, and besides; they probably got enough of us during all the pre-Game shit.

Arden practically rolls over to the crick and takes a long drink. He doesn't even bother to purify it. That water's cleaner than anything we can get in the Districts. It'd be even better if it weren't the only drop of the stuff in the godforsaken place.

I open my mouth to say something to Arden, and his scowl is already forming when a cannon rumbles.

**Artemis Traymon; District 9**

The girl from Five whimpers one last time before her cannon shakes the ground. I drive my knife in a few more times for good measure, still wary since my eyes are squeezed shut to avoid the affects the blood might have on me.

There's a tap on my shoulder and I open my eyes and whip around in a frenzy, only to find Cedar, whose green orbs blink furiously, successfully avoiding any eye contact.

I don't blame him.

"Artemis, she's dead," he whispers, "It's okay now."

He even dares to lay a hand on my shoulder. He's a good kid, Cedar. The girl from Five probably was too. But she was creeping too close for comfort, and I have to do what I have to do. I turn around and stand, striding over and pressing my forehead against a tree until I hear the hovercraft safely scoop the girl's body away.

Even then, I refuse to turn away. I'm afraid if I look, I might see my father instead. And even worse, I may have to see what I've done.

**Linus Santoro; District 1**

We're back at our camp from a full, useless day of what Phoenix calls _hunting. _

I'd call it evil, twisted, and horrendous, but ultimately, I'd call it a failure.

Phoenix is throwing a tantrum, kicking the toe of her boot into the damp soil, sending bits of earth flying everywhere, including the bowl of dried beef I had just pulled out to eat.

Sighing, I know I can do nothing but brush the dirt off and scoot even further away from the camp. My "allies" are already wary of me. They have about the same mental capacity as those from my District who confuse my thoughtfulness and quiet distaste for people with brutality. They've labeled me a threat; which I can't help but snicker at to myself. My muffled laughter cues startled side-glances from the others. Surely this only adds to the crazed instability they believe I possess.

And it's not helped when Phoenix hits her toe on a hidden rock in the dirt, causing her to clasp her injured foot while the other loses balance, knocking her straight on her ass, much like on interview night.

No one helps her up.

I lose it.

This causes more confused stares and baffled glares sent my way, but I can't say I care.

They'll all be gone soon anyways.

**Lila Carter; District 11**

I'm roaming in circles, with absolutely no purpose.

My scowl has long since faltered.

I suppose I've always been lost. But at least I've always had a bit of water along the way.

But here, there is not one drop.

In my staggered dizziness, I consider giving up. Just sitting down, curling into a big ball, and taking a long nap.

I then I remember who I am. I remember where I am. And I remember why.

Water or not, I will win.

**Bennett Howard; District 3**

When they show the fallen in the sky, I am not surprised to see Camellia of District 5 grinning from above. It's partly my fault she's up there.

Silly girl should know never to underestimate her competition. In the Hunger Games especially!

She thought when she ran into the sweet, stumbling boy from Three, she'd found herself an ally. _Ha!_ Didn't everyone?

I knew she'd be silly enough to steal from nutty Nine's camp, especially if District Three agreed. So I let her go.

A cannon fired, a life lost. Good riddance.

My shoulders ache under the weight of my pack, filled with the tools found from the Cornucopia that seem more useless with every passing hour. I warmed a few slices of pork with the little blowtorch, but that was the only use I had found.

I collapse in an exasperation heap, burying my head in my hands while contemplating throwing the gadgets off a nearby jagged slope, when I see it. The distant, telltale glint of metal reflecting in the moonlight. I hurriedly scoop up the bag and run toward the gleaming beacon. Busting through the clearing, well out of breath, I hunch over and put my hands in the knees, wheezing until I find my eyes shifting focus of the base of what I have found.

My eyes slowly creep up, until I am forced to stand and arch my back.

I can do nothing but gape. I stand, awestruck at the sheer magnitude of my discovery, my neck tilted upward at the sight.

It doesn't take long for me to remember my bag.

What was once so useless in such a dull arena has now become my lifeline in what is to be the battlefield of legends.

**I thought I had given up on this story, but after writing this chapter in under an hour I know I can't leave it hanging! I love my Tributes, Arena, and story far too much. Now that I'm in the Games and have seen how easy it is to write, you can expect updates regularly until finish. There are a few minor characters I want to kill off and a few things I need to set up before I get the plot really going, and it is sure to be good. Be sure to check out **_**Trial and Execution**_**, my other SYOT if you are enjoying this one. I apologize so much for the hiatus, and I hope you all can forgive me **

** The Fallen:**

** Camellia Embury; District Five**


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